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THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 



BY GRANVILLE BARKER 

THE MADRAS HOUSE 

ANATOL 

THE MARRYING OF ANN LEETE 

THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 

WASTE 

SOULS ON FIFTH 

In Collaboration with Laurence Housman 
PRUNELLA 



T 



HE VOYSEY IN- 
HERITANCE: 

A PLAY, IN FIVE ACTS 



BY GRANVILLE BARKER 



inon-referT 




SWYAD-QHS 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1916 









Copyrighty igog. 
By Granville Barker. 

All righti rescr'ved 



Published, February, 191 6 



THE VOrSET INHERITANCE is fully protected by copyright. It 
must not h* performed either by amateurs or professionals without 
■written permission. For such permission^and for the'''- acting version'''' 
with full stage directions., apply to The Paget Dramatic Agency., sS 
West 4Sth Street., New York City. 



J. Parkhill <& Co., Boston, U.S. 



FEB 21 ISI6 



CCf'V.i.'j;-:. 






^: 






The Voysey Inheritance 

1903-5 



THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 

The office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's 
Inn. Its panelled rooms give out a sense of grand- 
motherly comfort and security, very grateful at first 
to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant. Mr. 
Voysey's own room, into which he walks about 
twenty past ten of a morning, radiates enterprise be- 
sides. There is polish on everything ; on the win- 
dows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing 
table that stands between them, on the brasswork of 
the fire-place in the other wall, on the glass of the 
fire-screen which preserves only the pleasantness of 
a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes 
it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf be- 
hind the door. Mr. Voysey is sixty or more, and 
masterful; would obviously be master anywhere 
from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation 
in his attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air 
sometimes in the tzvist of his glance, not altogether 
suitable to a family solicitor. On this bright October 
morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too 
late to help him off with his coat, but in time to take 
it and hang it up with a quite unnecessary subservi- 
ence. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable enough 
to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite 
removed from Nature, has made some attempts to 
acquire protective colouring. A very drunken client 
1 



2 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

might mistake him for his master. His voice very 
easily became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later 
his features caught a line or two from that mirror 
of all the necessary virtues into which he was so 
constantly gazing; hut how his clothes, even when 
new, contrive to look like old ones of Mr, Voysey's 
is a mystery, and to his tailor a most annoying one. 
And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his 
master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey 
carries to his table the hunch of beautiful roses he is 
accustomed to bring to the office three times a week, 
and places them for a moment only near the howl of 
water there ready to receive them, while he takes up 
his letters. These lie ready, too, opened mostly, one 
or two private ones left closed and discreetly sep- 
arate. By this time the usual salutations have 
passed, Peacey' s "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's 
"Morning, Peacey." Then as he gets to his letters 
Mr. Voysey starts his day's work. 

MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me? 

PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom? 

PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this 
morning. 

MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the 
Times, [peacey goes to the fire-place for the Times; it is 
warming there, mr. voysey waves a letter, then places it 
on the table.'] Here, that's for you . . Gerrard Cross busi- 
ness. Anything else? 

PEACEY. \^As he turns the Times to its Finance page.'] 
I've made the usual notes. 

MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee. 

PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet. 

MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about 
that. Alguazils, Alg — oh, yes. 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 3 

He is running his eye down the columns, peacey 
leans over the letters. 

PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it? 

MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson . . Yes. Alguazils, Mr. 
Edward^s here, I suppose? 

PEACEY. No, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. l^His eye twisting with some sharpness.^ 
What! 

PEACEY. \_Almost alarmed.'] I beg pardon, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward. 

PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I 
thought you said Headley ; he's not due back till Thursday. 
MR. VOYSEY discards the Times and sits to his desk 
and his letters. 

MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come. 

PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else? 

MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't 
it? 

PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chisle- 
hurst. 

PEACEY. So early! 

MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call 
through about the rest of the letters. 

PEACEY goes, having secured a letter or two, and mr. 
VOYSEY, having sorted the rest (a proportion into 
the waste paper basket) takes up the forgotten roses 
and starts setting them into a howl, with an artistic 
hand. Then his son edward comes in. mr. voysey 
gives him one glance and goes on arranging the 
roses, but says cheerily . . 

MR. VOYSEY. Good moming, my dear boy. 

EDWARD has little of his father in him, and that little 
is undermost. It is a refined face, but self -conscious- 
ness takgs the place in it of imagination and in supj 



4. THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

pressing traits of brutality in his character it looks 
as if the young man had suppressed his sense of 
humour, too. But whether or no, that zvould not he 
much in evidence now, for edward is obviously go- 
ing through some experience which is scaring him 
(there is no better word). He looks not to have 
slept for a night or two, and his standing there, 
clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he 
carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly, but 
half accusingly, too, his whole being altogether so 
unstrung and desperate, makes MR. voysey's uninter- 
rupted arranging of the Uowers seem very calculated 
indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken. 
EDWARD. Father . . 

MR. VOYSEY. Well? 

EDWARD. I'm glad to see you. 

This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that 
the commonplace phrase sounds ridiculous at such a 
moment. 

MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there. 

EDWARD. Yes. 

MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them? 

EDWARD. As you wished me . . 

MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD docsn't answcT. Refer- 
ence to the papers seems to overwhelm him with shame, 
MR. VOYSEY goes on with cheerful impatience.'] Come, 
come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this. You're 
puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come 
down to me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told 
you to come. Then your mother was wondering, of course, 
why you weren't with us for dinner yesterday. 

EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted 
to make quite sure. 

MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me. 

EDWARD. [He is very near crying.'] Oh, father ! 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 5 

MR. VOYSEY. Now look here, Edward, Fm going to ring, 
and dispose of these letters. Please pull yourself together. 
[He pushes the little button on his tahle.l 
EDWARD. I didn't leave my rooms all day yesterday. 
MR. VOYSEY. A pleasant Sunday ! You must learn, 
whatever the business may be, to leave it behind 
you at the Office. Why, life's not worth living else. 
PEACEY comes in to find mr. voysey before the fire, 
ostentatiously warming and rubbing his hands. 
Oh, there isn't much else, Peacey. Tell Simmons that if 
he satisfies you about the details of this lease it'll be all 
right. Make a note for me of Mr. Grainger's address at 
Mentone. I shall have several letters to dictate tO' Atkin- 
son. I'll whistle for him. 

PEACEY. Mr. Burnett . . Burnett v. Marks had just 
come in, Mr. Edward. 

EDWARD. [Without turning. 1 It's only fresh instruc- 
tions. Will you take them? 
PEACEY. All right. 

PEACEY goes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness of 
Edward's manner. This mr. voysey sees, returning 
to his table with a little scowl. 
MR. VOYSEY. Now sit down. I've given you a bad forty- 
eight hours, it seems. Well, I've been anxious about you. 
Never mind, we'll thresh the thing out now. Go through 
the two accounts. Mrs. Murberry's first . . how do you 
find it stands? 

EDWARD. [His feelings choking him.'] I hoped you were 
playing some trick on me. 
MR. voysey. Come, now. 

EDWARD separates the papers precisely and starts to 
detail them; his voice quite toneless. Now and then 
his father's sharp comments ring out in contrast. 
EDWARD. We've got the lease of her present house, sev- 
eral agreements . . and here's her will. Here's also a 



6 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

sometime expired power of attorney over her securities 
and her property generally . . it was for six months. 

MR. VOYSEY. She was in South Africa. 

EDWARD. Here's the Sheffield mortgage and the Henry 
Smith mortgage with Banker's receipts . . hers to us for 
the interest up to date . . four and a half and five per cent. 
Then . . Fretworthy Bonds. There's a memorandum in 
your writing that they are at the Bank ; but you didn't say 
what Bank. 

MR. VOYSEY. My own . . Stukeley's. 

EDWARD. [Just dwelling on the words.'] Your own. I 
marked that with a query. There's eight thousand five 
hundred in three and a half India stock. And there are 
her Banker's receipts for cheques on account of those 
dividends. I presume for those dividends. 

MR. VOYSEY. Why not? 

EDWARD. [^Gravely.] Because then, Father, there are 
Banker's half yearly receipts for sums amounting to an 
average of four hundred and twenty pounds a year. But I 
find no record of any capital to produce this. 

MR. VOYSEY. Go on. What do you find? 

EDWARD. Till about three years back there seems to 
have been eleven thousand in Queenslands which would 
produce — did produce exactly the same sum. But after 
January of that year I find no record of this. 

MR. VOYSEY. In fact, the Queenslands are missing? 

EDWARD. [Hardly uttering the word.] Yes. 

MR. VOYSEY. From which you conclude? 

EDWARD. I concluded at first that you had not handed 
me all the papers connected with 

MR. VOYSEY. Since Mrs. Murberry evidently gets an- 
other four twenty a year somehow; lucky woman. 

EDWARD, [/m agony.] Oh ! 

MR. VOYSEY. Well, we'll return to the good lady later. 
Now let's, take the other. 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 7 

EDWARD. The Hatherley Trust. 

MR. VOYSEY. Quite so. 

EDWARD. [With one accusing glance.'] Trust. 

MR. VOYSEY. Go On. 

EDWARD. Oh, father . . 

His grief comes uppermost again, and mr. voysey 
meets it kindly. 

MR. VOYSEY. I know, my dear boy. I shall have lots to 
say to you. But let's get quietly through with these details 
first. 

EDWARD. [Bitterly now.] Oh, this is simple enough. 
We're young Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of 
age in about five years' time. The property was eighteen 
thousand invested in Consols. Certain sums were to be 
allowed for his education; these have been and are still 
being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital. 

MR. VOYSEY. None? 

EDWARD. Yes . . I beg your pardon, sir. There's a 
memorandum to refer to the Bletchley Land Scheme. 

MR. VOYSEY. That must be ten years ago. But he's 
credited with the interest on his capital? 

EDWARD. On paper, sir. The balance was to be rein- 
vested. There's a partial account in your hand writing. 
He's credited with the Consol interest. 

MR. VOYSEY. Quite so. 

EDWARD. I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley 
scheme paid seven and a half. 

MR. VOYSEY. At one time. Have you taken the trouble 
to calculate what will be due from us to the lad? 

EDWARD. Capital and compound interest . . . about 
twenty-six thousand pounds. 

MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time? 

EDWARD. When he comes of age. 

MR. VOYSEY. Well, that gives us, say four years and six 
months in which to think about it. 



3 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

EDWARD waits, hopelessly, for his father to speak 
again; then says . . 

EDWARD. Thank you for showing me these, sir. Shall 
I put them back in your safe now? 

MR. VOYSEY. Yes, you'd better. There's the key. [ed- 
WARD reaches for the bunch, his face hidden.] Put them 
down. Your hand shakes . . why, you might have been 
drinking . . I'll put them away later. It's no use having 
hysterics, Edward. Look the trouble in the face. 

Edward's only answer is to go to the fire, as far 
from his father as the room allows. And there he 
leans on the mantelpiece, his shoulders heaving. 

MR. VOYSEY. I'm sorry, my dear boy. I wouldn't tell 
you if I could help it. 

EDWARD. I can't believe it. And that you should be 
telling it me. 

MR. VOYSEY. Let your feelings go, and get that part of 
the business over. It isn't pleasant, I know. It isn't pleas- 
ant to inflict it on you. 

EDWARD. How I got through that outer office this morn- 
ing, I don't know. I came early, but some of them were 
here. Peacey came into my room ; he must have seen there 
was something up. 

MR. VOYSEY. That's no matter. 

EDWARD. [Able to turn to his father again; won round 
by the kind voice."] How long has it been going on ? Why 
didn't you tell me before? Oh, I know you thought you'd 
pull through ; but I'm your partner . . I'm responsible, too. 
Oh, I don't want to shirk that . . don't think I mean to 
shirk that, father. Perhaps I ought to have discovered, 
but those affairs were always in your hands. I trusted . . 
I beg your pardon. Oh, it's us . . not you. Everyone has 
trusted us. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Calmly and kindly still.'] You don't seem 
to notice that I'm not breaking my heart like this. 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 9 

EDWARD. What's the extent of the mischief ? When did 
it begin? Father, what made you begin it? 

MR. VOYSEY. I didn't begin it. 

EDWARD. You didn't. Who, then? 

MR. VOYSEY. My father before me. [edward stares.'] 
That calms you a little. 

EDWARD. I'm glad . . my dear father ! \_And he puts 
out his hand. Then just a doubt enters his mind.'] But 
I . . it's amazing. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Shaking his head.] My inheritance, 
Edward. 

EDWARD. My dear father ! 

MR. VOYSEY. I had hoped it wasn't to be yours. 

EDWARD. D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing 
has been going on for years? For more than thirty years ! 

MR. VOYSEY. Yes. 

EDWARD. That's a little difficult to understand just at 
first, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Sententiously.] We do what we must in 
this world, Edward. I have done what I had to do. 

EDWARD. [His emotion well cooled by now.] Perhaps 
I'd better just listen quietly while you explain. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Concentrating.] You know that Fm heav- 
ily into Northern Electrics. 

EDWARD. Yes. 

MR. VOYSEY. But you dou't know how heavily. When I 
discovered the Municipalities were organising the pur- 
chase, I thought, of course, the stock'd be up a hundred 
and forty — a hundred and fifty in no time. Now Leeds 
won't make up her quarrel with the other place . . there'll 
be no bill brought in for ten years. I bought at ninety- 
five. What are they now? 

EDWARD. Eighty-eight. 

MR. VOYSEY. Eighty-seven and a half. In ten years I 
may be . . ! That's why you've had to be told. 



10 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

EDWARD. With whose money are you so heavily into 
Northern Electrics? 

MR. VOYSEY. The firm's money. 
EDWARD. Clients' money? 

MR. VOYSEY. Yes. 

EDWARD. [Coldly.'] Well . . I'm waiting for your ex- 
planation, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. You sccm to have recovered yourself pret- 
ty much. 

EDWARD. No, sir. I'm trying to understand, that's all. 

MR. VOYSEY. [With a shrug.] Children always think 
the worst of their parents. I did of mine. It's a pity. 

EDWARD. Go on, sir, go on. Let me know the worst. 

MR. VOYSEY. There's no immediate danger. I should 
think anyone could see that from the state of these ac- 
counts. There's no actual danger at all. 

EDWARD. Is that the worst? 

MR. VOYSEY. [His anger rising.] Have you studied 
these two accounts, or have you not? 

EDWARD. Yes, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. Well, Where's the deficiency in Mrs. Mur- 
berry's income . . has she ever gone without a shilling? 
What has young Hatherley lost? 

EDWARD. He stands to lose 

MR. VOYSEY. He stands to lose nothing if I'm spared for 
a little, and you will only bring a little common sense to 
bear, and try to understand the difficulties of my position. 

EDWARD. Father, I'm not thinking ill of you . . that is, 
I'm trying not to. But won't you explain how you're 
justified — ? 

MR. VOYSEY. In putting our affairs in order. 

EDWARD. Are you doing that? 

MR. VOYSEY. What else? 

EDWARD. [Starting patiently to examine the matter.] 
How bad were things when you first came to control them? 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 11 

MR. VOYSEY. Oh, I forget. 

EDWARD. You can't forget. 

MR. VOYSEY. Well . . pretty bad. 

EDWARD. Do you know how it was my grandfather be- 
gan to 

MR. VOYSEY. Muddlement, muddlement! Then the 
money went, and what was he to do ? He'd no capital, no 
credit, and was in terror of his life. My dear Edward, 
if I hadn't found it out he'd have confessed to the first 
man who came and asked for a balance sheet. 

EDWARD. Well, what exact sum was he to the bad then ? 

MR. VOYSEY. I forget. Several thousands. 

EDWARD. But surely it has not taken all these years to 
pay off 

MR. VOYSEY. Oh, hasn't it! 

EDWARD. [Making his point.'] But how does it happen, 
sir, that such a comparatively recent trust as young Hath- 
erley's has been broken into? 

MR, VOYSEY. Well, what could be safer than to use that 
money? There's a Consol investment, and not a sight 
wanted of either capital or interest for five years. 

EDWARD. [Utterly beaten.'] Father, are you mad? 

MR. VOYSEY. Certainly not. My practice is to reinvest 
my clients' money when it is entirely under my control. 
The difference between the income this money has to bring 
to them and the income it is actually bringing to me I util- 
ise in my endeavour to fill up the deficit in the firm's ac- 
counts . . in fact, to try and put things straight. Doesn't 
it follow that the more low interest bearing capital I can 
use, the better . . the less risky things I have to put it 
into. Most of young Hatherley's Consol capital is out on 
mortgage at four and a half and five . . safe as safe 
can be. 

EDWARD. But he should have the benefit. 

MR. VOYSEY. He has the amount of his consol interest. 



12 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

EDWARD. Are the mortgages in his name? 

MR. VOYSEY. Some of them . . some of them. That's 
a technical matter. With regard to Mrs. Murberry . . 
those Fretworthy Bonds at my bank . . I've raised five 
thousand on them. I can release her Bonds to-morrow if 
she wants them. 

EDWARD. Where's the five thousand. 

MR. VOYSEY. I don't know . . It was paid into my pri- 
vate account. Yes, I do remember. Some of it went to 
complete a purchase . . that and two thousand more out 
of the Skipworth fund. 

EDWARD. But, my dear father 

MR. VOYSEY. Well? 

EDWARD. [Summing it all up very simply."] It's not 
right. 

MR. VOYSEY considers his son for a moment with a 
pitying shake of the head. 

MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . why is it so hard for a man to see 
clearly beyond the letter of the law ! Will you consider a 
moment, Edward, the position in which I found myself? 
Was I to see my father ruined and disgraced without lift- 
ing a finger to help him? . . not to mention the interest of 
the cHents. I paid back to the man who would have lost 
most by my father's mistakes every penny of his money. 
He never knew the danger he'd been in . . never passed 
an uneasy moment about it. It was I who lay awake. I 
have now somewhere a letter from that man to my father 
thanking him effusively for the way in which he'd conduct- 
ed some matter. It comforted my poor father. Well, 
Edward, I stepped outside the letter of the law to do that. 
Was that right or wTong? 

EDWARD. In its result, sir, right. 

MR. VOYSEY. Judge me by the result. I took the risk of 
failure . . I should have suffered. I could have kept clear 
of the danger if I'd liked. 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 13 

EDWARD. But that's all past. The thing that concerns 
me is what you are doing now. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Gently reproachful now.'] My boy, you 
must trust me a little. It's all very well for you to come in 
at the end of the day and criticise. But I, who have done 
the day's work, know how that work had to be done. And 
here's our firm, prosperous, respected, and without a stain 
on its honour. That's the main point, isn't it? And I think 
that achievement should earn me the right to be trusted a 
little . . shouldn't it? 

EDWARD. [Quite irresponsive to this pathetic appeal,'] 
Look here, sir, I'm dismissing from my mind all prejudice 
about speaking the truth . . acting upon one's instructions, 
behaving as any honest firm of solicitors must behave . . 

MR. VOYSEY. You need not. I tell no unnecessary lies. 
If a man of any business ability gives me definite instruc- 
tions about his property, I follow them. 

EDWARD. Father, no unnecessary lies ! 

MR. VOYSEY. Well, my friend, go and tell Mrs. Murberry 
that four hundred and twenty pounds of her income hasn't 
for the last eight years come from the place she thinks it's 
come from, and see how happy you'll make her. 

EDWARD. But is that four hundred and twenty a year as 
safe to come to her as it was before you meddled with the 
capital ? 

MR. VOYSEY. I see no reason why 

EDWARD. What's the security? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Putting his coping stone on the argu- 
ment.] My financial ability. 

EDWARD. [Really not knozving whether to laugh or cry.] 
Why, it seems as if you were satisfied with this state of 
things. 

MR. VOYSEY. Edward, you really are most unsympathetic 
and unreasonable. I give all I have to the firm's work . . 
my brain , . my energies ♦ . my whole life, I can't turn 



14 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

my abilities into hard cash at par . . I wish I could. Do 
you suppose that if I could establish every one of these peo- 
ple with a separate and consistent bank balance to-morrow 
that I shouldn't do it ? Do you suppose that it's a pleasure 
. . that it's relaxation to have these matters continually on 
one's mind? Do you suppose — ? 

EDWARD. [Thankfully able to meet anger with anger.'} 
I find it impossible to believe that you couldn't somehow 
have put things to rights by now. 

MR. VOYSEY. Oh, do you ? Somchow ! 

EDWARD. In thirty years the whole system must either 
have come hopelessly to grief . . or during that time there 
must have been opportunities 

MR. VOYSEY. Well, if you're so sure, I hope that when 
I'm under ground you may find them. 

EDWARD. I ! 

MR. VOYSEY. And put everything right with a stroke of 
the pen, if it's so easy ! 

EDWARD. I ! 

MR. VOYSEY. You're my partner and my son, and you'll 
inherit the business. 

EDWARD. [Realising at last that he has been led to the 
edge of this abyss.} Oh, no, father. 

MR. VOYSEY. Why else have I had to tell you all this? 

EDWARD. [Very simply.} Father, I can't. I can't pos- 
sibly. I don't think you've any right to ask me. 

MR. VOYSEY. Why not, pray ? 

EDWARD. It's perpetuating the dishonesty. 

MR. VOYSEY hardens at the unpleasant word. 

MR. VOYSEY. You don't believe that I've told you the 
truth. 

EDWARD. I wish to believe it. 

MR. VOYSEY. It's no proof . . that I've earned these 
twenty or thirty people their incomes for the last — ^how 
many years? 



ACT I] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 15 

EDWARD. Whether what you have done and are doing 
is wrong or right . . I can't meddle in it. 

For the moment mr. voysey looks a little dangerous, 

MR. VOYSEY. Very well. Forget all I've said. Go back 
to your room. Get back to your own mean drudgery. My 
life's work — my splendid life's work — ruined! What does 
that matter? 

EDWARD. Whatever did you expect of me? 

MR. voYSEY. [flaking a feint at his papers.'] Oh, noth- 
ing, nothing. [Then he slams them down with great ef- 
fect.'] Here's a great edifice built up by years of labour 
and devotion and self-sacrifice . . a great arch you may 
call it . . a bridge which is to carry our firm to safety with 
honour. [This variation of Disraeli passes unnoticed.] My 
work ! And now, as I near the end of my life, it still lacks 
the key-stone. Perhaps I am to die with my work just 
incomplete. Then is there nothing that a son might do? 
Do you think I shouldn't be proud of you, Edward . . that 
I shouldn't bless you from — wherever I may be, when you 
completed my life's work . . with perhaps just one kindly 
thought of your father ? 

In spite of this oratory, the situation is gradually 
impressing edward. , 

EDWARD. What will happen if I .. if I desert you? 

MR. voYSEY. I'll protect you as best I can. 

EDWARD. I wasn't thinking of myself, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. [With great nonchalance.] Well, I shan't 
mind the exposure, you know. It won't make me blush in 
my coffin . . and you're not so foolish, I hope, as to be 
thinking of the feelings of your brothers and sisters. Con- 
sidering how simple it would have been for me to go to my 
grave in peace and quiet, and let you discover the whole 
thing afterwards, the fact that I didn't, that I have taken 
some thought for the future of all of you might perhaps 



16 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

have convinced you that I . . ! But there . . consult 
your own safety. 

EDWARD has begun to pace the room, indecision 
growing upon him. 

EDWARD. This is a queer thing to have to make up one's 
mind about, isn't it, father? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Watching him closely, and modulating his 
voice.] My dear boy, I understand the shock to your feel- 
ings that this disclosure must have been. 

EDWARD. Yes, I thought this morning that next week 
would see us in the dock together. 

MR. VOYSEY. And I suppose if I'd broken down, and 
begged your pardon for my folly, you'd have done any- 
thing for me, gone to prison smiling, eh? 

EDWARD. I suppose SO. 

MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's easy enough to forgive. I'm sorry 
I can't go in sack cloth and ashes to oblige you. \Now 
he begins to rally his son; easy in his strength.'] My dear 
Edward, you've lived a quiet, humdrum life up to now, 
with your books and your philosophy and your agnosticism 
and your ethics of this and your ethics of that . . dear me, 
these are the sort of garden oats which young men seem 
to sow now-a-days ! . . and you've never before been 
brought face to face with any really vital question. Now 
don't make a fool of yourself just through inexperience. 
Try and give your mind freely and unprejudicedly to the 
consideration of this very serious matter. I'm not angry 
at what you've said to me. I'm quite willing to forget it. 
And it's for your own sake, and not for mine, Edward, 
that I do beg you to — to — to be a man, and try and take a 
practical common sense view of the position you find your- 
self in. It's not a pleasant position, I know, but it's 
unavoidable. 

EDWARD. You should havc told me before you took me 
into partnership. [Oddly enough, it is this last flicker of 



ACT I] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 17 

rebellion which breaks down mr. voysey's caution. Now 
he lets fly with a vengeance.'] 

MR. VOYSEY. Should I be telling you at all if I could 
possibly help it? Don't I know that you're about as fit for 
this job as a babe unborn? Haven't I been worrying over 
that for these last three years? But I'm in a corner . . and 
I won't see all this work of mine come to smash simply be- 
cause of your scruples. If you're a son of mine you'll do 
as I tell you. Hadn't I the same choice to make? . . and 
this is a safer game for you than it was for me then. D'you 
suppose I didn't have scruples? H you run away from 
this, Edward, you're a coward. My father was a coward, 
and he suffered for it to the end of his days. I was sick- 
nurse to him here more than partner. Good Lord ! . . of 
course it's pleasant and comfortable to keep within the law 
. . then the law will look after you. Otherwise you have 
to look pretty sharp after yourself. You have to cultivate 
your own sense of right and wrong; deal your own justice. 
But that makes a bigger man of you, let me tell you. How 
easily . . how easily could I have walked out of my fa- 
ther's office and left him to his fate ; no one would have 
blamed me ! But I didn't. I thought it my better duty to 
stay and . . yes, I say it with all reverence . . to take up 
my cross. Well, I've carried that cross pretty successfully. 
And what's more, it's made a happy man of me . . a bet- 
ter, stronger man than skulking about in shame and in fear 
of his life ever made of my poor dear father. [^Relieved 
at having let out the truth, but doubtful of his wisdom in 
doing so, he changes his tone.] I don't want what I've 
been saying to influence you, Edward. You are a free 
agent . . and you must decide upon your own course of 
action. Now don't let's discuss the matter any more for 
the moment. 

EDWARD looks at his father zvith clear eyes. 

EDWARD. Don't forget to put these papers away. 



18 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act i 

He restores them to their bundles and hands them 
hack; it is his only comment, mr. voysey takes them 
and his meaning in silence. 

MR. VOYSEY. Are you coming down to Chislehurst soon? 
We've got Hugh and his wife, and Booth and Emily, and 
Christopher for two or three days, till he goes back to 
school. 

EDWARD. How is Chris ? 

MR. VOYSEY. All right again now . . grows more like 
his father. Booth's very proud of him. So am I. 

EDWARD. I think I can't face them all just at present. 

MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense. 

EDWARD. \^A little wave of emotion going through him.} 
I feel as if this thing were written on my face. How I 
shall get through business I don't know ! 

MR. VOYSEY. You're weaker than I thought, Edward. 

EDWARD. [A little ironically.'] A disappointment to you, 
father? 

MR. VOYSEY. No, nO. 

EDWARD. You should havc brought one of the others 
into the firm . . Trenchard or Booth. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Hardening.'] Trenchard ! [He disjnisses 
that.] Well, you're a better man than Booth. Edward, 
you mustn't imagine that the whole world is standing on 
its head merely because you've had an unpleasant piece of 
news. You come down to Chislehurst to-night . . well, 
say to-morrow night. It'll be good for you . . stop your 
brooding . . that's your worst vice, Edward. You'll find 
the household as if nothing had happened. Then you'll 
remember that nothing really has happened. And pres- 
ently you'll get to see that nothing need happen, if you 
keep your head. I remember times, when things have 
seemed at their worst, what a relief it's been to me . . my 
romp with you all in the nursery just before your bed 
time. Do you remember? 



ACT i] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 19 

EDWARD. Yes. I cut your head open once with that gun. 
MR. VOYSEY. [In a full glow of fine feeling.] And, my 
dear boy, if I knew that you were going to inform the 
next cHent you met of what I've just told you . . 
EDWARD. [With a shudder.] Oh, father ! 
MR. VOYSEY. . . And that I should find myself in prison 
to-morrow, I wouldn't wish a single thing I've ever done 
undone. I have never wilfully harmed man or woman. 
My life's been a happy one. Your dear mother has been 
spared to me. You're most of you good children, and a 
credit to what I've done for you. 

EDWARD. [The deadly humour' of this too much for 
him.] Father ! 

MR. VOYSEY. Run aloug now, run along. I must finish 
my letters and get into the City. 

He might be scolding a schoolboy for some tricing 
fault. EDWARD turns to have a look at the keen, un- 
embarrassed face. MR. VOYSEY smiles at him and 
proceeds to select from the bowl a rose for his 
buttonhole. 
EDWARD. I'll think it over, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. Of course you will. And don't brood, 
Edward, don't brood. 

So EDWARD leaves him; and having' fixed the rose to 

his satisfaction, he rings his table telephone and 

calls through it to the listening clerk. 

Send Atkinson to me, please. [Then he gets up, keys in 

hand, to lock azvay Mrs. Murberry's and the Hatherley 

trust papers.'} 



OO THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act it 



THE SECOND ACT 

The VOYSEY dining-room at Chislehiirst, when children and 
grandchildren are visiting, is dining-tahle and very 
little else. And at this moment in the evening, when 
five or six men are sprawling hack in their chairs, 
and the air is clouded with smoke, it is a very typ- 
ical specimen of the middle-class English domestic 
temple; the daily sacrifice consummated, the acolytes 
dismissed, the zuomen safely in the drawing-room, 
and the chief priests of it taking their surfeited ease 
round the dessert-piled altar. It has the usual red- 
papered zvalls (like a reflection, they are, of the un- 
derdone beef so much consumed within them) ; the 
usual varnished zuoodwork, which is known as 
grained oak; there is the usual hot, mahogany furni- 
ture; and, commanding point of the whole room, 
there is the usual black-marble sarcophagus of a 
fireplace. Above this hangs one of the two or three 
oil paintings, which are all that break the red pat- 
tern of the walls, the portrait painted in 1880 of an 
undistinguished looking gentleman aged sixty; he is 
shown sitting in a more graceful attitude than it 
could ever have been comfortable for him to assume. 
MR. voYSEY^s father it is, and the brass plate at the 
bottom of the frame tells us that the portrait was a 
presentation one. On the mantelpiece stands, of 
course, a clock; at either end a china vase filled with 
paper spills. And in front of the fire — since that is 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE ^1 

the post of vantage, stands at this moment major 
BOOTH VOYSEY. He is the second son, of the age that 
it is necessary for a Major to be, and of an appear- 
ance that many ordinary Majors in ordinary regi- 
ments are. He went into the army because he 
thought it would be like a schoolboy's idea of it; 
and, being there, he does his little all to keep it so. 
He stands astride, hands in pockets, coat-tails 
through his arms, cigar in mouth, moustache brist- 
ling. On either side of him sits at the table an old 
gentleman; the one is mr. evan colpus, the vicar of 
their parish, the other mr. george booth, a friend of 
long standing, and the Major^s godfather, mr. -col- 
pus is a harmless enough anachronism, except for 
the waste of £400 a year in which his stipend in- 
volves the community. Leaving most of his paro- 
chial work to an energetic curate, he devotes his 
serious attention to the composition of two sermons 
a week. They deal with the difficulties of living the 
Christian life as experienced by people who have 
nothing else to do. Published in series from time 
to time, these form suitable presents for bedridden 
'parishioners, mr. george booth, on the contrary, is 
as gay an old gentleman as can be found in Chisle- 
hurst. An only son; Ms father left him at the age 
of twenty-five a fortune of a hundred thousand 
pounds (a plum, as he called it). At the same time 
he had the good sense to dispose of his father's busi- 
ness, into which he had been most unzvillingly intro- 
duced five years earlier, for a like sum before he 
was able to depreciate its value. It was mr. voysey's 
invaluable assistance in this transaction which first 
bound the tzvo together in great friendship. Since 
that time Mr. Booth has been bent on nothing but 
enjoying himself. He has even remained a bachelor 



22 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act ii 

with that object. Money has given him all he wants, 
therefore he loves and reverences money; while his 
imagination may he estimated by the fact that he 
has now reached the age of sixty-five still possess- 
ing more of it than he knows what to do with. At 
the head of the table, meditatively cracking walnuts, 
sits MR. VOYSEY. He has his back there to the con- 
servatory door — you knozv it is the conservatory 
door because there is a curtain to pnll over it, and 
because half of it is frosted glass with a purple key 
patter Ji round the edge. On mr. voysey's left is 
DENIS TREGONiNG, a nicc cnoiigh young man. And 
at the other end of the table sits edward, not smok- 
ing, not talking, hardly listening, very depressed. 
Behind him is the ordinary door of the room, which 
leads out into the dismal, draughty hall. The Ma- 
jo/s voice is like the sound of a cannon through 
the tobacco smoke. 
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of coursc Fm hot and strong 
for conscription . . 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear boy, the country 'd never 

stand it. No Englishman 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [Dropping the phrase heavily 
upon the poor old gentleman.'] I beg your pardon. If v^e 
. . the Army . . say to the country . . Upon our honour, 
conscription is necessary for your safety . . what answer 
has the country? What? [He pauses defiantly.'] There 
you are . . none ! 

TREGONiNG. Booth will imagine because one doesn't 
argue that one has nothing to say. You ask the country. 
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I'll 
chuck the Service and go into the House. [Then falling 
into the sing song of a favourite phrase.] I'm not a con- 
ceited man . . but I believe that if I speak out upon a 
subject I understand, and only upon that subject, the House 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE ^S 

will listen . . and if others followed my example we 
should be a far more business-like and go-ahead commu- 
nity. 

He pauses for breath, and mr. booth seizes the 
opportunity. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If you think the gentlemen of Eng- 
land will allow themselves to be herded with a lot of low 
fellers and made to carry guns — ! 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [^Obliterating, him once more.'] 
Just one moment. Have you thought of the physical im- 
provement which conscription would bring about in the 
manhood of the country? What England wants is Chest! 
[He generously inflates his own.] Chest and Discipline. 
I don't care how it's obtained. Why, we suffer from a 

lack of it in our homes 

MR. VOYSEY. \\Vith the crack of a nut.] Your godson 
talks a deal, don't he ? You know, when Booth gets into a 
club he gets on the committee . . gets on any committee 
to enquire into anything . . and then goes on at 'em just 
like this. Don't you. Booth? 

BOOTH knuckles under easily enough to his father's 
sarcasm. 
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Well, sir, people tell me I'm a 
useful man on committees. 

MR. VOYSEY. I don't doubt it . . your voice must drown 
all discussion, 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. You Can't Say I don't listen to 
you, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. I don't . . and I'm not blaming you. But 
I must say I often think what a devil of a time the family 
will have with you when I'm gone. Fortunately for your 
poor mother, she's deaf. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. And wouldn't you wish me, sir, 
as eldest son . . . Trenchard not counting . . . 

MR. VOYSEY. \With the crack of anoUier mit.] Tren- 



24 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

chard not counting. By all means, bully them. Get up 
your subjects a bit better, and then bully them. I don't 
manage things that way myself, but I think it's your best 
chance . . if there weren't other people present I'd say 
your only chance, Booth. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [With some discomfort. '\ Ha! 
If I were a conceited man, sir, I could trust you to take it 
out of me. 

MR. VOYSEY. [As he taps mr. booth with the nut crack- 
ers.^ Help yourself, George, and drink to your godson's 
health. Long may he keep his chest notes ! Never heard 
him on parade, have you? 

TREGONING. I notice military men must display them- 
selves . . that's why Booth acts as a firescreen. I believe 
that after mess that position is positively rushed. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [Cheering to find an opponent 
he can tackle.'] \i you want a bit of fire, say so, you suck- 
ing Lord Chancellor. Because I mean to allow you to be 
my brother-in-law you think you can be impertinent. 

So TREGONING movcs to the fire, and that changes 
the conversation. 

MR. VOYSEY. By the bye, Vicar, you were at Lady Mary's 
yesterday. Is she giving us anything towards that window? 

MR. coLPUs. Five pounds more; she has promised me 
five pounds. 

MR. VOYSEY. Then how will the debt stand ? 

MR. COLPUS. Thirty-three . . no, thirty-two pounds. 

MR. VOYSEY. We're a long time clearing it off. 

MR. COLPUS. [Gently querulous.'] Yes, now that the 
window is up, people don't seem so ready to contribute as 
they were. 

TREGONING. We must mention that to Hugh ! 

MR. COLPUS. [Tactful at once.] Not that the work is 
not universally admired. I have heard Hugh's design 
praised by quite competent judges. But certainly I feel 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE S5 

now it might have been wiser to have delayed the unveil- 
ing until the money was forthcoming. 

TREGONiNG. Ncver deliver goods to the Church on 
credit. 

MR. coLPus. Eh ? [TREGONING kuows he ts tt little hard 
of hearing.'] 

MR. VOYSEY. Well, as it was my wish that my son 
should do the design, I suppose in the end I shall have 
to send you a cheque. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Anouymously. 

MR. COLPUS. Oh, that would be 

MR. VOYSEY. No, why should I? Here, George Booth, 
you shall halve it with me. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'm damned if I do. 

MR. COLPUS. [Proceeding, conveniently deaf.] You re- 
member that at the meeting we had of the parents and 
friends to decide on the positions of the names of the poor 
fellows and the regiments and coats of arms and so on . . 
when Hugh said so violently that he disapproved of the 
war and made all those remarks about land-lords and 
Bibles and said he thought of putting in a figure of Brit- 
annia blushing for shame or something . . I'm beginning 
to fear that may have created a bad impression. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why should they mind . . what 
on earth does Hugh know about war? He couldn't tell 
a battery horse from a bandsman. I don't pretend to 
criticise art. I think the window'd be very pretty if it 
wasn't so broken up into bits. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Fortified by his '^damned'* and his 
last glass of port.] These young men are so ready with 
their disapproval. Criticism starts in the cradle nowadays. 
When I was young, people weren't always questioning 
this and questioning that. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Lack of discipline. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Hurrying on.] The way a man 



26 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

now even stops to think what he's eating and drinking. 
And in rehgious matters . . Vicar, I put it to you . . 
there's no uniformity at all. 

MR. COLPUS. Ah . . I try to keep myself free from the 
disturbing influences of modern thought. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Youug men must be forming their 
own opinions about this and their opinions about that. 
You know, Edward, you're worse even than Hugh is. 

EDWARD. [Glancing up mildly at this sudden attack.'] 
What have I done, Mr. Booth? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Not tJic readiest of men.'] Well . . 
aren't you one of those young men who go about the 
world making difficulties? 

EDWARD. What sort of difficulties? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Triumphantly.] Just so . . I 
never can make out. Surely when you're young you can 
ask the advice of your elders and when you grow up you 
find Laws . . lots of laws divine and human laid down 
for our guidance. [Well in possession of the conversation 
he spreads his little self.] I look back over a fairly long 
life and . . perhaps I should say by Heaven's help . . I 
find nothing that I can honestly reproach myself with. 
And yet I don't think I ever took more than five minutes 
to come to a decision upon any important point. One's 
private life is, I think, one's cwn affair . . I should allow 
no one to pry into that. But as to worldly things . . well, 
I have come into several sums of money and my capital 
is still intact . . ask your father. [mr. voysey nods 
gravely.] I've never robbed any man. I've never lied 
over anything that mattered. As a citizen I pay my 
taxes without grumbling very much. Yes, and I sent 
conscience money too upon one occasion. I consider 
that any man who takes the trouble can live the life of a 
gentleman. [And he finds that his cigar is oiit.J 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 27 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. \_Not to be outdoue by this dis- 
play of virtue.l Well, I'm not a conceited man, but 

TREGONiNG. Are you sure. Booth? 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Shut Up. I was going to say 
when my young cub of a brother-in-law-to-be interrupted 
me, that Training, for which we all have to be thank- 
ful to you. Sir, has much to do with it. {Suddenly he 
pulls his trousers against his legs.l I say, I'm scorching ! 
D'you want another cigar, Denis? 

TREGONING. No, thank you. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I do. 

And he glances round, but tregoning sees a box on 
the table and reaches it. The Vicar gets up. 
MR. coLPus. M-m-m-must be taking my departure. 
MR. VOYSEY. Already ! 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. {^Frowning upon the cigar box.] 
No, not those. Where are the Ramon Allones? What 
on earth has Honor done with them? 

MR. VOYSEY. Spare time for a chat with Mrs. Voysey 
before you go. She has ideas about a children's tea fight. 
MR. COLPUS. Certainly I will. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [ScowUng hclplcssly around.'] 
My goodness ! . . one can never find anything in this 
house. 

MR. COLPUS. I won't say good-bye then. 

He is sliding through the half opened door when 
ETHEL meets him Hinging it wide. She is the 
younger daughter, the baby of the family, but 
twenty-three now. 
MR. VOYSEY. I say, it's cold again to-night! An ass of 
an architect who built this place . . such a draught be- 
tween these two doors. 

He gets up to draw the curtain. When he turns 
COLPUS has disappeared, while ethel has been fol- 
lowed into the room by alice maitland^ who shuts 



28 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

the door after her. miss alice maitland is a 
young lady of any age to thirty. Nor need her 
appearance alter for the next fifteen years; since 
her nature is healthy and well-balanced. She pos- 
sesses indeed the sort of athletic chastity which is 
a characteristic charm of Northern spinsterhood. 
It mayn't he a pretty face, hut it has alertness and 
humour; and the resolute eyes and eyehrows are a 
more innocent edition of mr. voysey's, who is her 
uncle. ETHEL goes straight to her father {though 
her glance is on denis and his on her'] and chirps, 
birdlike, in her spoiled-child way. 
ETHEL. We think you've stayed in here quite long 
enough. 

MR. VOYSEY. That's to say, Ethel thinks Denis has been 
kept out of her pocket much too long. 

ETHEL. Ethel wants billiards . . not proper billiards . . 
snooker or something. Oh, Papa, what a dessert you've 
eaten. Greedy pig! 

ALICE is standing behind edward, considering his 
hair-parting apparently. 
ALICE. Crack me a filbert, please, Edward . . I had 
none. 

EDWARD. {Jumping up, rather formally, well-mannered.'] 
I beg your pardon, Alice. Won't you sit down? 
ALICE. No. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Taking ethel on his knee.] Come here, 
puss. Have you made up your mind yet what you want 
for a wedding present? 

ETHEL. [Rectifying a stray hair in his beard.] After 
mature consideration, I decide on a cheque. 
MR. VOYSEY. Do you ! 

ETHEL. Yes, I think that a cheque will give most scope 
to your generosity. Of course, if you desire to add any 
trimmings in the shape of a piano or a Turkey carpet you 



ACT II] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 29 

may . . and Denis and I will be very grateful. But I 
think Fd let yourself go over a cheque. 

MR. VOYSEY. You're a minx. 

ETHEL. What is the use of having money if you don't 
spend it on me? 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. IGwing Up the cigar search.'] 
Here, who's going to play? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Pathetically as he gets up.] Well, 
if my wrist will hold out . . 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [To TREGONING.] No, dou't yOU 

bother to look for them. [He strides from the room, his 
voice echoing through the hall.] Honor, where are those 
Ramon Allones? 

ALICE. [Calling after.] She's in the drawing-room 
with Auntie and Mr. Colpus. 

MR. VOYSEY. Now I should suggest that you and Denis 
go and take off the billiard table cover. You'll find folding 
it up is a very excellent amusement. 

He illustrates his meaning with his table napkin 
and by putting together the tips of his forefingers, 
roguishly. 

ETHEL. I am not going to blush. I do kiss Denis . . 
occasionally . . when he asks me. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [T easing her.] You are blushing. 

ETHEL. I am not. H you think we're ashamed of being 
in love, we're not, we're very proud of it. We will go 
and take off the billiard table cover and fold it up . . and 
then you can come in and play. Denis, my dear, come 
along solemnly, and if you flinch I'll never forgive you. 
[She marches off and reaches the door before her defiant 
dignity breaks down; then suddenly — ] Denis, I'll race 
you. 

And she flashes out. den is, loyal, but with no his- 
trionic instincts, follows her rather sheepishly, 

DENIS. Ethel, I can't after dinner. 



30 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

MR. VOYSEY. Women play that game better than men. 
A man shuffles through courtship with one eye on her 
relations. 

The Major comes stalking hack, followed in a fear- 
ful flurry by his elder sister, honor. Poor honor 
[her female friends are apt to refer to her as Poor 
honor] is a phenomenon common to most large 
families. From her earliest years she has been bot- 
tle washer to her brothers. While they were expen- 
sively educated, she was grudged schooling; her 
highest accomplishment was meant to be mending 
their clothes. Her fate is a curious snrzival of the 
intolerance of parents towards her sex until the 
vanity of their hunger for sons had been satisfied. 
In a less humane society she would have been ex- 
'posed at birth. But if a very general though pat- 
ronising affection, accompanied by no consideration 
at all, can bestow happiness, honor is not unhappy 
in her survival. At this moment, however, her life 
is a burden. 
major booth VOYSEY. Honor, they are not in the dining- 
room. 

honor. But they must be! Where else can they be? 
She has a hnhit of accentuating one word in each 
sentence, and often the wrong one. 
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSKY. That's what you ought to know. 
MR. VOYSEY. \^As he moves towards the door.'] Well . . 
will you have a game? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I'll play you fifty up, not more. I'm 
getting old. 

iviR. VOYSEY. [Stopping at a dessert dish.] Yes, these 
are good apples of Bearman's. I think six of my trees 
are spoilt this year. 
HONOR. Here you are, Booth. 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE .31 

She triumphantly discovers the discarded box, at 

which the Major becomes pathetic with indignation, 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Oh, Honor, don't be such a fool. 

These are what we've been smoking. I want the Ramon 

Allones. 

HONOR. I don't know the difference. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. No, you don't ; but you might 

learn. 

MR. VOYSEY. [In a voice like the crack of a very fine 

whip-l Booth. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. iSnbduedly/] What is it, sir? 

MR. VOYSEY. Look fof your cigars yourself. Honor, 
go back to your reading and your sewing, or whatever you 
were fiddling at, and fiddle in peace. 

MR. VOYSEY departs, leaving the room rather hushed, 
MR. BOOTH has not waited for this parental display. 
Then alice insinuates a remark very softly. 

ALICE. Have you looked in the Library ? 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. [Relapsing to an injured mutter.'] 
Where's Emily? 

HONOR. Upstairs with little Henry ; he woke up and cried. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Letting her wear herself to rags 
over the child . . ! 

HONOR. Well, she won't let me go. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Why don't you stop looking for 
those cigars ? 

HONOR. U you don't mind, I want a reel of blue silk 

now I'm here. 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I darcsay they are in the Library. 

What a house! 

He departs. 
HONOR. Booth is so trying. 
ALICE. Honor, why do you put up with it? 
HONOR. Someone has to. 
ALICE. [Discreetly nibbling a nut which edward has 



S2 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

cracked for her.'] I'm afraid I think Master Major Booth 
ought to have been taken in hand early . . with a cane. 

HONOR. \^As she vaguely hurrozvs into corners.'] Papa 
did. But it's never prevented him booming at us . . oh, 
ever since he was a baby. Now he's flustered me so I 
simply can't think where this blue silk is. 

ALICE. All the Pettifers desired to be remembered to 
you, Edward. 

HONOR. I must do without it. [^But she goes on look- 
ing.] I think, Alice, that we're a very difficult family . . 
except perhaps Edward. 

EDWARD. Why except me? 

HONOR. \}Vho has only excepted out of politeness to 
present company.] Well, you may be difficult . . to your- 
self. [Then she starts to go, threading her way through 
the disarranged chairs.] Mr. Colpus will shout so loud at 
Mother, and she hates people to think she's so very deaf. 
I thought Mary Pettifer looking old . . [And she talks 
herself out of the room.] 

ALICE. [After her.] She's getting old. 

Now ALICE does sit down; as if she'd he glad of her 
tete-a-tete. 

ALICE. I was glad not to spend August abroad for once. 
We drove into Cheltenham to a dance . . carpet. I golfed 
a lot. 

EDWARD. How long Were you with them ? 

ALICE. Not a fortnight. It doesn't seem three months 
since I was here, does it? 

EDWARD. I'm down so very little. 

ALICE. I'm here a disgraceful deal. 

EDWARD. You know they're always pleased. 

ALICE. Well, being a homeless person ! But what a 
cart-load to descend all at once . . yesterday and to-day. 
The Major and Emily . . Emily's not at all well. Hugh 
and Mrs. Hugh. And me. Are you staying ? 



ACT II] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 33 

EDWARD. No. I must get a word with my father . . 
ALICE. A business life is not healthy for you, Edward. 
You look more like half-baked pie-crust than usual. 
EDWARD. lA little enviously.'] You're very well. 
ALICE. I'm always well, and nearly always happy. 

MAJOR BOOTH retums. He has the right sort of 
cigar in his mouth, and is considerably mollified. 
ALICE. You found them? 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Of course, they were there. 
Thank you very much, Alice. Now I want a knife. 
ALICE. I must present you with a cigar-cutter, Booth. 
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. I hate 'cm. [He eyes the des- 
sert disparagingly.'] Nothing but silver ones. 

EDWARD hands him a carefully opened pocket knife. 
Thank you, Edward. And I must take one of the candles. 
Something's gone wrong with the library ventilator and 
you never can see a thing in that room. 
ALICE. Is Mrs. Hugh there? 

MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Writing letters. Things are 
neglected, Edward, unless one is constantly on the look 
out. The Pater only cares for his garden. I must speak 
seriously to Honor. 

He has returned the knife, still open, and now hav- 
ing lit his cigar at the candle he carries this off. 
ALICE. Honor has the patience of a .. of an old maid. 
EDWARD. Her mission in life isn't a pleasant one. \He 
gives her a nut, about the fifteenth.] Here ; 'scuse fingers. 
ALICE. Thank you. ^Looking at him, with her head on 
one side and her face more humorous than ever.] Edward, 
why have you given up proposing to me ? 

He starts, flushes; then won't be outdone in humour. 
EDWARD. One can't go on proposing for ever. 
ALICE. [Reasonably.] Why not? Have you seen any- 
one you like better? 

EDWARD. No. 



34 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

ALICE. Well . . I miss it. 

EDWARD. What satisfaction did you find in refusing me ? 

ALICE. \_As she iveighs the matter.'] I find satisfaction 
in feeling that I'm wanted. 

EDWARD. Without any intention of giving yourself . . 
throwing yourself away. 

ALICE. [Teasing his sudden earnestness.'] Ah, now you 
come from mere vanity to serious questions. 

EDWARD. Mine were always serious questions to you. 

ALICE. That's a fault I find in you, Edward; all ques- 
tions are serious to you. I call you a perfect little pocket- 
guide to life . . all questions and answers; what to eat, 
drink and avoid, what to believe and what to say . . all 
in the same type, the same importance attached to each. 

EDWARD. [Sententiously.] Well . . everything matters. 

ALICE. [Making a face.] D'you plan out every detail 
of your life . . every step you take . . every mouthful? 

EDWARD. That would be waste of thought. One must 
lay down principles. 

ALICE. I prefer my plan, I always do what I know I 
want to do. Crack me another nut. 

EDWARD. Haven't you had enough? 

ALICE. I k n o w I want one more. 

He cracks another, with a sigh which sounds ridic- 
ulous in that connection. 

EDWARD. Well, if you've never had to decide anything 
very serious . . 

ALICE. [With great gravity.] Everything's serious. 

EDWARD. Everything isn't vital. 

ALICE. [Skilfully manoeuvring the subject.] I've an- 
swered vital questions. I knew that I didn't want to 
marry you . . each time. 

EDWARD. Oh, then you didn't just make a rule of say- 
ing no. 

ALICE. As you proposed . . on principle? No, I al- 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE S5 

ways gave you a fair chance. I'll give you one now if 
you like. 

He rouses himself to play up to this outrageous 
piece of flirting. 
EDWARD. Fm not to be caught. 

ALICE. Edward, how rude you are. \^She eats her nut 
contentedly.'] 

EDWARD. Do other men propose to you? 
ALICE. Such a thing may have happened . . when I 
was young. Perhaps it might even now if I were to 
allow it. 

EDWARD. You encourage me shamelessly. 
ALICE. It isn't everyone who proposes on principle. 
As a rule a man does it because he can't help himself. 
And then to be said no to . . hurts. 

They are interrupted by the sudden appearance of 
MRS. HUGH VOYSEY, a brisk, bright little woman, 
in an evening gown, which she has bullied a cheap 
dressmaker into making look exceedingly smart. 
BEATRICE is OS hard as nails and as clever as paint. 
But if she keeps her feelings buried pretty deep it 
is because they are precious to her; and if she is im- 
patient with fools it is because her own brains have 
had to win her everything in the world, so perhaps 
she does overvalue them a little. She speaks always 
with great decision and little effort. 
BEATRICE. I believe I could write important business 
letters upon an island in the middle of Fleet Street. But 
while Booth is poking at a ventilator with a billiard cue 
. . no, I can't. 

She goes to the fireplace, waving her half finished 
letter. 
ALICE. \_Soothingly.'\ Didn't you expect Hugh back to 
dinner? 



g6 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

BEATRICE. Not Specially . . He went to rout out some 
things from his studio. He'll come back in a filthy mess. 
ALICE. Now if you listen . . Booth doesn't enjoy mak- 
ing a fuss by himself . . you'll hear him rout out Honor. 
They listen. But what happens is that booth ap- 
pears at the door, billiard cue in hand, and says 
solemnly . . 
MAJOR BOOTH VOYSEY. Edward, I wish you'd come and 
have a look at this ventilator, like a good fellow. 

Then he turns and goes again, obviously with the 
weight of an important matter on his shoulders. 
With the ghost of a smile edward gets up and 
follows him. 
ALICE. If I belonged to this family I should hate Booth. 
With which comment she joins Beatrice at the 
fireplace. 
BEATRICE. A good day's shopping? 
ALICE. 'M. The baby bride and I bought clothes all 
the morning. Then we had lunch with Denis and bought 
furniture. 
BEATRICE. Nice fumiture? 

ALICE. It'll be very good and very new. They neither 
of them know what they want. [Then suddenly throwing 
up her chin and exclaiming.'] When it's a question of 
money I can understand it . . but if one can provide for 
oneself or is independent why get married ! Especially 
having been brought up on the sheltered life principle . . 
one may as well make the most of its advantages . . one 
doesn't go falling in love all over the place as men seem 
to . . most of them. Of course with Ethel and Denis it's 
different. They've both been caught young. They're two 
little birds building their nests and it's all ideal. They'll 
soon forget they've ever been apart. 

Now HONOR flutters into the room, patient but wild 
eyed. 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE ^ 

HONOR. Mother wants last week's Notes and Queries. 
Have you seen it? 

BEATRICE. [^Exasperated at the interruption.'] No. 

HONOR. It ought not to be in here. [So she proceeds 
to look for it.] She's having a long argument with Mr. 
Colpus over Oliver Cromwell's relations. 

ALICE. [Her eyes twinkling.'] I thought Auntie didn't 
approve of Oliver Cromwell. 

HONOR. She doesn't and she's trying to prove that he 
was a brewer or something. I suppose someone has taken 
it away. 

So she gives up the search and flutters out again. 

ALICE. This is a most unrestful house. 

REATRiCE. I once thought of putting the Voyseys 
into a book of mine. Then I concluded they'd be as dull 
there as they are anywhere else. 

ALICE. They're not duller than most other people. 

BEATRICE. But how very dull that is ! 

ALICE. They're a little noisier and perhaps not quite 
so well mannered. But I love them. 

BEATRICE. I don't. I should have thought Love was 
just what they couldn't inspire. 

ALICE. Of course, Hugh is unlike any of the others. 

BEATRICE. He has most of their bad points. I don't 
love Hugh. 

ALICE. [Her eyebrows up, though she smiles.] Beatrice, 
you shouldn't say so. 

BEATRICE. It sounds affcctcd, doesn't it? Never mind; 
when he dies I'll wear mourning . . but not weeds; I 
bargained against that when we were engaged. 

ALICE. [Her face growing a little thoughtful.] Beatrice, 
I'm going to ask questions. You were in love with Hugh 
when you married him? 

BEATRICE. Well . . I married him for his money. 

ALICE. He hadn't much. 



38 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

BEATRICE. I had none . . and I wanted to write books. 
Yes, I loved him. 

ALICE. And you thought you'd be happy ? 

BEATRICE. ^Considering carefully.'] No, I didn't. I 
hoped he'd be happy. 

ALICE. [^A little ironical.'] Did you think your writing 
books would make him so? 

BEATRICE. My dear Alice, wouldn't you feel it a very 
degrading thing to have your happiness depend upon some- 
body else? 

ALICE. [After pausing to find her phrase.] There's a 
joy of service. 

BEATRICE. [Irojiical herself nozv.] I forgot . . you've 
four hundred a year? 

ALICE. What has that to do with it? 

BEATRICE. \_Ptitting her case very precisely.] I've had 
to earn my own living, consequently there isn't one thing 
in my life that I have ever done quite genuinely for its 
own sake . . but always with an eye towards bread-and- 
butter, pandering to the people who were to give me that. 
Happiness has been my only independence. 

The conservatory door opens, and through it come 
MR. VOYSEY and MR. BOOTH, in the midst of a discus- 
sion. 

MR. VOYSEY. Very well, man, stick to the shares and 
risk it. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, of course, if you seriously ad- 
vise me 

MR. VOYSEY. I never advise greedy children. I let 'em 
overeat 'emselves, and take the consequences 

ALICE. [Shaking a finger.] Uncle Trench, you've been 
in the garden without a hat, after playing billiards in that 
hot room. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. We had to give up . . my wrist 
was bad. They've started pool. 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 39 

BEATRICE. Is Booth going to play ? 

MR. VOYSEY. We left him instructing Ethel how to hold 
a cue. 

BEATRICE. Perhaps I can finish my letter. 

Off she goes, alice is idly following with a little 
paper her hand has fallen on behind the clock. 

MR. VOYSEY. Don't run away, my dear. 

ALICE. I'm taking this to Auntie . . Notes and Queries 
. . she wants it. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Damn . . this gravel's stuck to my 
shoe. 

MR. VOYSEY. That's a new made path. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now don't you think it's too early 
to have put in those plants? 

MR. VOYSEY. No. We're getting frost at night already. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I should have kept that bed a good 
ten feet further from the tree. 

MR. VOYSEY. Nonsense. The tree's to the north of it. 
This room's cold. Why don't they keep the fire up ! [He 
proceeds to put coals on it.l 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You wcrc too hot in that billiard 
room. You know, Voysey . . about those Alguazils ? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Through the rattling of the coals. '\ What? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Trying to pierce the din.l Those 
Alguazils. 

MR. VOYSEY^ with Surprising inconsequence, points a 
finger at the silk handkerchief across mr. booth's 
shirt front. 

MR. VOYSEY. What d'you put your handkerchief there 
for? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Mcasure of precau — [At that 
moment he sneezes.'] Damn it . . if you've given me a 
chill dragging me round your infernal garden 

MR. VOYSEY. [Slapping him on the hack.] You're an 
old crook. 



40 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, I'll be glad of this winter in 
Egypt. [He returns to his subject.'] And if you think 
seriously that I ought to sell out of the Alguazils before I 
go . . ? [He looks with childlike enquiry at his friend, 
who is apparently yawning slightly.'] Why can't you take 
them in charge? . . and I'll give you a power of attorney 
or whatever it is . . and you can sell out if things look bad. 
At this moment phcebe, the middle aged parlour- 
maid, comes in, tray in hand. Like an expert fish- 
erman, MR. VOYSEY once more lets loose the thread 
of the conversation. 
MR. VOYSEY. D'you want to clear? 
phcebe. It doesn't matter, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. No, gO OU . . gO OH. 

So MARY, the young housemaid, comes in as well, 
and the two start to clear the table. All of which 
fidgets poor mr. booth considerably. He sits shriv- 
elled up in his armchair by the fire; and now mr. 
VOYSEY attends to him. 
MR. VOYSEY. What d'you want with high interest at all 
. . you never spend half your income? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I like to feel that my money is do- 
ing some good in the world. These mines are very useful 
things, and forty-two per cent, is pleasing. 
MR. VOYSEY. You're an old gambler. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Propitiatiugly.] Ah, but then I've 
you to advise me. I always do as you tell me in the end, 
now you can't deny that. 

MR. VOYSEY. The man who don't know must trust in the 
man who does ! [He yawns again.] 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Modcstly insisting.] There's five 
thousand in Alguazils — what else could we put it into? 
MR. VOYSEY. I can get you something at four and a half. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, Lord . . that's nothing. 
MR. VOYSEY. [With a sudden serious friendliness.] I 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 41 

wish, my dear George, you'd invest more on your own 
account. You know — what with one thing and the other — 
I've got control of practically all you have in the world. I 
might be playing old Harry with it for all you know. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Overflowing with confidence.'] My 
dear feller . . if I'm satisfied! Ah, my friend, what'll 
happen to your firm when you depart this life! . . not be- 
fore my time, I hope, though. 

MR. voYSEY. [With a little frown.'] What d'ye mean? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward's no use. 

MR. voYSEY. I beg your pardon . . very sound in busi- 
ness. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. May be . . but I tell you he's no 
use. Too many principles, as I said just now. Men have 
confidence in a personality, not in principles. Where would 
you be without the confidence of your clients? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Candidly.] True ! 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. He'll never gain that. 

MR. VOYSEY. I fear you dislike Edward. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [With plcasant frankness.'] Yes, 

I do. 

MR. VOYSEY. That's a pity. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [With a flattering smile.] Well, 
he's not his father and never will be. What's the time? 
MR. VOYSEY. [With inappropriate thoughtfulness.] 
Twenty to ten. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I must be trotting. 
MR. VOYSEY. It's vcry early. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Oh, and I've not said a word to 
Mrs. Voysey . . 

As he goes to the door he meets edward, who comes 
in apparently loolzing for his father; at any rate 
catches his eye immediately, while mr. booth o&- 
liviously continues. 



4^ THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n' 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you stroll round home with 
me? 

MR. VOYSEY. I can't. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Mildly Surprised at the short re- 
ply.'] Well, good night. Good night, Edward. 
He trots away. 
MR. VOYSEY. Leave the rest of the table, Phoebe. 
PHOEBE. Yes, sir. 
MR. VOYSEY. You Can come back in ten minutes. 

PHCEBE and MARY depart and the door is closed. 
Alone with his son mr. voysey does not move; his 
face grows a little keener, that's all. 
MR. VOYSEY. Well, Edward? 

EDWARD starts to move restlessly about, like a cowed 
animal in a cage; silently for a moment or two. 
Then when he speaks, his voice is toneless and he 
doesn't look at his father. 
EDWARD. I should like you now, sir, if you don't mind, 
to drop with me all these protestations about putting the 
firm's affairs straight, and all your anxieties and sacrifices 
to that end. I see now, of course . . what a cleverer man 
than I could have seen yesterday . . that for some time, 
ever since, I suppose, you recovered from the first shock 
and got used to the double dealing, this hasn't been your 
object at all. You've used your clients' capital to produce 
your own income . . to bring us up and endow us with. 
Booth's ten thousand pounds; what you are giving Ethel 
on her marriage . . It's odd it never struck me yesterday 
that my own pocket money as a boy was probably with- 
drawn from some client's account. You've been very gen- 
erous to us all. Father. I suppose about half the sum 
you've spent on us would have put things right. 
MR. VOYSEY. No, it would uot. 

EDWARD. [Appealing for the truth.] Oh . . at some 
time or other ! 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 43 

MR. VOYSEY, Well, if there have been good times there 
have been bad times. At present the three hundred a 
year I'm to allow your sister is going to be rather a pull. 

EDWARD. Three hundred a year . . and yet you've 
never attempted to put a single account straight. Since 
it isn't lunacy, sir . . I can only conclude that you enjoy 
being in this position. 

MR. VOYSEY. I have put accounts absolutely straight . . 
at the winding up of a trust for instance . . at great 
inconvenience too. And to all appearances they've been 
above suspicion. What's the object of all this rodomon- 
tade, Edward? 

EDWARD. If I'm to remain in the firm, it had better be 
with a very clear understanding of things as they are. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Firmly, not too anxiously.'] Then you 
do remain? 

EDWARD, [/w a very low voice.'] Yes, I remain. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Quite gravely.] That's wise of you . . 
I'm very glad. [And he is silent for a moment.] And now 
we needn't discuss the impractical side of it any more. 

EDWARD. But I want to make one condition. And I 
want some information. 

MR. VOYSEY. [His sudden cheerfulness relapsing again.] 
Well? 

EDWARD. Of course no one has ever discovered . . and 
no one suspects this state of things? 

MR. VOYSEY. Peacey knows. 

EDWARD. Peacey ! 

MR. VOYSEY. His father found out. 

EDWARD. Oh. Does he draw hush money? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Curling a little at the word.] It is my 
custom to make a little present every Christmas. Not a 
cheque . . notes in an envelope. [He becomes benevolent.] 
I don't grude the money . . Peacey's a devoted fellow. 

EDWARD. Naturally this would be a heavily taxed in- 



U THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

dustry. [Then he smiles at his vision of the mild old 
clerk.'\ Peacey ! There's another thing I want to ask, sir. 
Have you ever under stress of circumstances done worse 
than just make use of a cHent's capital? You boasted to 
me yesterday that no one had ever suffered in pocket be- 
cause of you. Is that absolutely true? 

MR. VOYSEY draws himself up, digniHed and mag- 
niloquent. 

MR. VOYSEY. My dear Edward, for the future my mind 
IS open to you, you can discover for yourself how matters 
stand to-day. But I decline to gratify your curiosity as 
to what is over and done with. 

EDWARD. [With entire comprehension.'] Thank you, 
sir. The condition I wish to make is that we should 
really do what we have pretended to be doing . , try and 
put the accounts straight. 

MR. VOYSEY. [With a little polite shrug.'] I've no doubt 
you'll prove an abler man of business than I. 

EDWARD. One by one. 

MR. VOYSEY. Which one will you begin with? 

EDWARD. I shall begin, Father, by halving the salary 
I draw from the firm. 

MR. VOYSEY. I see . . Retrenchment and Reform. 

EDWARD. And I think you cannot give Ethel this five 
thousand pounds dowry. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Shortly, with one of the quick twists of 
his eye.] I have given my word to Denis. 

EDWARD. The money isn't yours to give. 

MR. VOYSEY. [In an indignant crescefido.] I should 
not dream of depriving Ethel of what, as my daughter, 
she has every right to expect. I am surprised at your 
suggesting such a thing. 

EDWARD. [Pale and firm.] I'm set on this, Father. 

MR. VOYSEY. Don't be such a fool, Edward. What 



ACT n] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 45 

would it look like . . suddenly to refuse without rhyme or 
reason? What would old Tregoning think? 

EDWARD. [Distressed.'] You could give them a reason. 

MR. VOYSEY. Perhaps you'll invent one. 

EDWARD. If need be, Ethel should be told the truth. 

MR. VOYSEY. What! 

EDWARD. I know it would hurt her. 

MR. VOYSEY. And Denis told too, I suppose? 

EDWARD. Father, it is my duty to do whatever is neces- 
sary to prevent this. 

MR. VOYSEY. It'll be necessary to tell the nearest police- 
man. It is my duty to pay no more attention to these 
scruples of yours than a nurse pays to her child's tan- 
trums. Understand, Edward, I don't want to force you to 
continue my partner. Come with me gladly or don't 
come at all. 

EDWARD, [Dully.'] It is rry duty to be of what use I 
can to you, sir. Father, I want to save you if I can. 

He Hashes into this exclamation of almost broken- 
hearted affection. MR. voysey looks at his son for a 
moment and his lip quivers. Then he steels himself. 

MR. VOYSEY. Thank you ! I have saved myself quite 
satisfactorily for the last thirty years, and you must please 
believe that by this time I know my own business best. 

EDWARD. [Hopelessly.] Let the money come some other 
way. How is your own income regulated? 

MR. VOYSEY. I have a bank balance and a cheque book, 
haven't I? I spend what I think well to spend. What's 
the use of earmarking this or that as my own? You say 
none of it is my own. I might say it's all my own. I think 
I've earned it. 

EDWARD. [Anger coming on him.] That's what I can't 
forgive. If you'd lived poor . . if you'd really devoted 
your skill to your clients' good and not to your aggrandise- 
ment . . then, even though things were only as they are 



46 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

now, I could have been proud of you. But, Father, own 
the truth to me, at least . . that's my due from you, con- 
sidering how I'm placed by all you've done. Didn't you 
simply seize this opportunity as a means to your own end, 
to your own enriching? 

MS. VOYSEY. [With a sledge hammer irony. 1 Certainly. 
I sat that morning in my father's office, studying the hel- 
met of the policeman in the street belov/, and thinking 
what a glorious path I had happened on to wealth and hon- 
our and renown. [Then he begins to bully edward in the 
kindliest way.^ My dear boy, you evidently haven't begun 
to grasp the A B C of my position. What has carried me 
to victory? The confidence of my clients. What has 
earned that confidence? A decent life, my integrity, m.y 
brains? No, my reputation for wealth . . that, and noth- 
ing else. Business now-a-days is run on the lines of the 
confidence trick. What makes old George Booth so glad 
to trust me with every penny he possesses? Not affection 
. . he's never cared for anything in his life but his collec- 
tion of prints. No ; he imagines that I have as big a stake 
in the country, as he calls it, as he has, and he's perfectly 
happy. 

EDWARD. [^Stupefied, helpless."] So he's involved! 

MR. VOYSEY. Of course he's involved, and he's always 
after high interest, too . . it's little one makes out of him. 
But there's a further question here, Edward. Should I 
have had confidence in myself if I'd remained a poor man? 
No, I should not. You must either be the master of money 
or its servant. And if one is not opulent in one's daily life 
one loses that wonderful . . financier's touch. One must 
be confident oneself . . and I saw from the first that I 
must inspire confidence. My whole public and private life 
has tended to that. All my surroundings . . you and your 
brothers and sisters that I have brought into, and up, and 



ACT II] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 47 

put out in the world so worthily . . you in your turn in- 
spire confidence. 

EDWARD. Not our worth, not our abilities, nor our 
virtues, but the fact that we travel first class and ride in 
hansoms. 

MR. VOYSEY. [Impatiently.'] Well, I haven't organised 
Society upon a basis of wealth. 

EDWARD. Is every single person who trusts you involved 
in your system? 

MR. VOYSEY. What new hole are you finding to pick in 
my conduct? 

EDWARD. My mind travelled naturally from George 
Booth, with his big income, to old Nursie, with her savings 
which she brought you to invest. You've let those be, at 
least. 

MR. VOYSEY. I never troubled to invest them . . it 
wasn't worth while. 

EDWARD. Father ! 

MR. VOYSEY. D'you know what she brought me? . . five 
hundred pounds. 

EDWARD. That's damnable. 

MR. VOYSEY. Indeed. I give her seventy-five pounds a 

year for it. Would you like to take charge of that account, 

Edward? I'll give you five hundred to invest to-morrow. 

EDWARD, hopelessly beaten, falls into an almost comic 

state of despair. 

EDWARD. My dear Father, putting every moral question 
aside . . it's all very well your playing Robin Hood in this 
magnificent manner; but have you given a moment's 
thought to the sort of inheritance you'll be leaving me? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Pleased for the first time.'] Ah ! That is 
a question you have every right to ask. 

EDWARD. If you died to-morrow, could we pay eight 
shillings in the pound . . or seventeen . . or five? Do 
you know ? 



48 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

MR. VOYSEY. And my answer is, that by your help I 
have every intention, when I die, of leaving a will behind 
me of property to you all running into six figures. D'you 
think I've given my life and my talents to this money 
making for a less result than that? Fm fond of you all . . 
and I want you to be proud of me . . and I mean that the 
name of Voysey shall be carried high in the world by my 
children and grandchildren. Don't you be afraid, Edward. 
Ah, you lack experience, my boy . . you're not full grown 
yet . . your impulses are a bit chaotic. You emotionalise 
over your work, and you reason about your emotions. You 
must sort yourself. You must realise that money making 
is one thing, and religion another, and family-life a third 
. . and that if we apply our energies whole-heartedly to 
each of these in turn, and realise that different laws gov- 
ern each, that there is a different end to be served, a differ- 
ent ideal to be striven for in each 

His coherence is saved by the sudden appearance of 
his zvife, who comes round the door, smiling be- 
nignly. Not in the least put out, in fact, a little 
relieved, he greets her with an affectionate shout, 
for she is very deaf. 

MR. VOYSEY. Hullo, Mother! 

MRS. VOYSEY, Oh, there you are, Trench. I've been 
deserted. 

MR. VOYSEY. George Booth gone? 

MRS. VOYSEY, Are you talking business? Perhaps you 
don't want me. 

MR. VOYSEY. No, HO . . no business. 

MRS. VOYSEY. \Who has not looked for his answer."] 1 
suppose the others are in the billiard room. 

MR. VOYSEY. IVociferoiisly.'] We're not talking busi- 
ness, old lady. 

EDWARD. I'll be off, sir. 



ACT ii] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 49 

MR. VOYSEY. iGenial as usual.'] Why don't you stay? 
I'll come up with you in the morning. 

EDWARD. No, thank you, sir. 

MR. VOYSEY. Then I shall be up about noon to-morrow. 

EDWARD. Good-night, Mother. 

MRS. VOYSEY places a plumps kindly hand on his arm 
and looks up affectionately. 

MRS. VOYSEY. You look tired. 

EDWARD. No, I'm not. 

MRS. VOYSEY. What did you say ? 

EDWARD. [Too weary to repeat himself.'] Nothing, 
Mother dear. 

He kisses her cheek, while she kisses the air. 

MR. VOYSEY. Good-night, my boy. 

Then he goes. mrs. voysey is carrying her Notes 
and Queries. This is a dear old lady, looking older, 
too, than probably she is. Placid describes her. She 
has had a life of little joys and cares, has never 
measured herself against the world, never even ques- 
tioned the shape and size of the little corner of it in 
which she lives. She has loved an indulgent hus- 
band, and borne eight children, six of them surviv- 
ing, healthy. That is her history. 

MRS. VOYSEY. George Booth went some time ago. He 
said he thought you'd taken a chill walking round the 
garden. 

MR. VOYSEY. I'm all right. 

MRS. VOYSEY. D'you think you have? 

MR. VOYSEY. \_In her ear.] No. 

MRS. VOYSEY. You should be careful, Trench. What 
did you put on? 

MR. VOYSEY. Nothing. 

MRS. VOYSEY. How Very foolish! Let me feel your 
hand. You are quite feverish. 



50 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act n 

MR. VOYSEY. [Affectionately.l You're a fuss-box, old 
lady. 

MRS. VOYSEY. [Coquctting with him.'] Don't be rude, 
Trench. 

HONOR descends upon them. She is well into that 
nightly turmoil of putting everything and every- 
body to rights which always precedes her bed-time. 
She carries a shawl which she clasps round her 
mother's shoulders, her mind and gaze already on 
the next thing to be done. 
HONOR. Mother, you left your shawl in the drawing- 
room. Can they finish clearing? 

MR. VOYSEY. [Arranging the folds of the shawl with 
real tenderness.] Now who's careless ! 
PHCEBE comes into the room. 
HONOR. Phoebe, finish here and then you must bring in 
the tray for Mr. Hugh. 

MRS. VOYSEY. [Having looked at the shawl, and honor, 
and connected the matter in her mind.] Thank you, Honor. 
You'd better look after your Father; he's been walking 
round the garden without his cape. 
HONOR. Papa ! 

MR. VOYSEY. Phoebe, you get that little kettle and boil 
it, and brew me some hot whiskey and water. I shall be 
all right. 

HONOR. [Fluttering more than ever.] I'll get it. 
Where's the whiskey? And Hugh coming back at ten 
o'clock with no dinner. No wonder his work goes wrong. 
Here it is. Papa, you do deserve to be ill. 

Clasping the whiskey decanter, she is oW again. 
MRS. VOYSEY sits at the dinner table and adjusts 
her spectacles. She returns to Notes and Queries, 
one elbow firmly planted and her plump hand 
against her plump cheek. This is her favourite at- 
titude; and she is apt, when reading, to soliloquise 



ACT n] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 51 

in her deaf woman's voice. At least, whether she 

considers it soliloquy or conversation, is not easy to 

discover, mr. voysey stands with his back to the 

fire, grumbling and pulling faces. 

MRS. VOYSEY. This is a very perplexing correspondence 

about the Cromwell family. One can't deny the man had 

good blood in him . . his grandfather Sir Henry, his 

uncle Sir Oliver . . and it's difficult to discover where 

the taint crept in. 

MR. VOYSEY. There's a pain in my back. I believe I 
strained myself putting in all those strawberry plants. 

MARY, the house parlour maid, carries in a tray of 

warmed-up dinner for hugh and plants it on the 

table. 

MRS. VOYSEY. Yes, but then how was it he came to 

disgrace himself so? I believe the family disappeared. 

Regicide is a root and branch curse. You must read this 

letter signed C. W. A. . . it's quite interesting. There's 

a misprint in mine about the first umbrella maker . . now 

where was it . . [And so the dear lady will ramble on 

indefinitely.'} 



5^ THE VOVSEY INHERITANCE [act m 



THE THIRD ACT 

The dining-room looks very different in the white light 
of a July noon. Moreozer on this particular day, 
it isn't even its normal self. There is a peculiar 
luncheon spread on the table. The embroidered 
cloth is placed cornerwise and on it are decanters of 
port and sherry; sandzviches, biscuits and an uncut 
cake; tzvo little piles of plates and one little pile of 
napkins. There are no table decorations and indeed 
the whole room has been made as bare and as tidy 
as possible. Such preparations denote one of the 
recognised English festivities, and the appearance 
of PHCEBE, the maid, who has just completed them, 
the set solemnity of her face and the added touches 
of black to her dress and cap, suggest that this is 
probably a funeral. When mary comes in the fact 
that she has evidently been crying and that she de- 
corously does not raise her voice above an un- 
pleasant whisper makes it quite certain. 
MAPY. Phoebe, they're coming . . and I forgot one of 

the blinds in the drawing room. 

PHCEBE. Well, pull it up quick and make yourself 

scarce. I'll open the door. 

MARY got rid of, phcebe composes her face still 
viore rigorously into the aspect of formal grief and 
with a touch to her apron as well goes to admit the 
funeral party. The first to enter are mrs. voysey 
and MR. BOOTH, she on his arm; and the fact that 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 5^ 

she is in widow's weeds makes the occasion clear. 

The little old man leads his old friend very tenderly. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Will you coitie in here? 
MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you. 

With great solicitude he puts her in a chair; then 

takes her hand. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now I'll intrude no longer. 
MRS. VOYSEY. You'll take some lunch ? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. 

MRS. VOYSEY. Not a glass of wine? 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. If there's anything I can do just 
send round. 

MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you. 

He reaches the door, only to be met by the Major 
and his wife. He shakes hands with them both. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Emily ! My dear Booth ! 
EMILY is a homely, patient, pale little woman of 
about thirty-five. She looks smaller than usual in 
her heavy black dress and is meeker than usual on 
an occasion of this kind. The Major, on the other 
hand, though his grief is most sincere, has an ir- 
resistible air of being responsible for, and indeed 
rather proud of the whole affair. 
BOOTH. I think it all went off as he would have wished. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Feeling that he is called on for 
praise.~\ Great credit . . great credit. 

He makes another attempt to escape and is stopped 
this time by trenchard voysey, to whom he is ex- 
tending a hand and beginning his formula. But 
trenchard speaks first. 
trenchard. Have you the right time? 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Taken aback and fumbling for his 
watch.'] I think so . . I make it fourteen minutes to one. 
[He seizes the occasion.] Trenchard, as a very old and 
dear friend of your father's, you won't mind me saying 



54 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act m 

how glad I was that you were present to-day. Death 
closes all. Indeed . . it must be a great regret to 
you that you did not see him before . . before . . 
TRENCHARD. [His cold eye freezing this little gush.'] I 
don't think he asked for me. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Stoppered.'] No? No! Well . , 
well . . . 

At this third attempt to depart he actually collides 
with someone in the doorzuay. It is hugh voysey. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. My dear Hugh . . I won't intrude. 
Quite determined to escape, he grasps his hand, 
gasps out his formula and is off. trenchard and 
HUGH^ eldest and youngest son, are as unlike each 
other as it is possible for voyseys to be, but that 
isn't very unlike, trenchard has in excelsis the 
cocksure manner of the successful barrister; hugh 
the rather sweet though querulous air of diffidence 
and scepticism belonging to the unsuccessful man of 
letters, or artist. The self-respect of trenchard^s 
appearance is immense, and he cultivates that air of 
concentration upon any trivial matter, or even upon 
nothing at all, which zvill some day make him an im- 
pressive figure upon the Bench, hugh is alzuays 
vague, searching Heaven or the corners of the room 
for inspiration, and even on this occasion his tie is 
abominably crooked. The inspissated gloom of this 
assembly, to which each member of the family, as he 
arrives, adds his share, is unbelievable. Instinct ap- 
parently leads them to reproduce as nearly as possi- 
ble the appearance and conduct of the corpse on 
which their minds are fixed, hugh is depressed 
partly at the inadequacy of his grief: trenchard 
conscientiously preserves an air of the indifference 
which he feels; booth stands statuesque at the man- 
telpiece; while EMILY is by mrs. voysey, whose face 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 55 

in its quiet grief is, nevertheless, a mirror of many 
happy memories of her husband. 

BOOTH. I wouldn't hang over her, Emily. 

EMILY. No, of course not. 

Apologetically, she sits by the table. 

TRENCHARD. I hope your wife is well, Hugh? 

HUGH. Thank you. Trench ; I think so. Beatrice is in 
America . . on business. 

TRENCHARD. Really ! 

There comes in a small, well groomed, bullet headed 
boy in Etons. This is the Major's eldest son. Look- 
ing scared and solemn, he goes straight to his 
mother. 

EMILY. Now be very quiet, Christopher . . 
Then denis tregoning appears. 

TRENCHARD. Oh, Tregoning, did you bring Honor back ? 

DENIS. Yes. 

BOOTH. [At the table.'] A glass of wine, Mother. 

MRS. VOYSEY. What? 

BOOTH hardly knows how to turn his whisper decor- 
ously into enough of a shout for his mother to hear. 
But he manages it. 

BOOTH. Have a glass of wine? 

MRS. VOYSEY. Sherry, please. 

While he pours it out with an air of its being medi- 
cine on this occasion, and not wine at all, edward 
comes quickly into the room, his face very set, his 
mind obviously on other matters than the funeral. 
No one speaks to him for the moment, and he has 
time to observe them all. trenchard is continuing 
his talk to DENIS. 

TRENCHARD. Givc my love to Ethel. Is she ill that 

TREGONING. Not exactly, but she couldn't very well be 
with us. I thought perhaps you might have heard. We're 
expecting . . 



56 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act m 

He hesitates with the hashfulness of a young hus- 
band. TRENCHARD helps him out with a citizen's 
how of respect for a citi::en's duty. 
TRENCHARD. Indeed. I congratulate you. I hope all 
will be well. Please give my love . . my best love to Ethel. 
BOOTH, [/m an awful voice.'] Lunch, Emily ? 
EMILY. [^Scared.] I suppose so, Booth, thank you. 
BOOTH. I think the boy had better run away and play 
. . \He checks himself on the zvord.] Well, take a book, 
and keep quiet; d'ye hear me, Christopher? 

CHRISTOPHER, zvho looks incapable of a sound, gazes 
at his father with round eyes, emily whispers 
^'Library" to him, and adds a kiss in acknowledg- 
ment of his good behaviour. After a moment he 
slips out, thankfully. 
EDWARD. How's Ethel, Denis? 

TREGONiNG. A little Smashed, of course, but no harm 
done. 

ALICE MAiTLAND comcs in, brisk and businesslike, a 

little impatient of this universal cloud of mourning. 

ALICE. Edward, Honor has gone to her room. I want 

to take her some food and make her eat it. She's very 

upset. 

EDWARD. Make her drink a glass of wine, and say it is 
necessary she should come down here. And d'you mind 
not coming back yourself, Alice? 

ALICE. [Her eyebrows up.] Certainly, if you wish. 
BOOTH. [Overhearing.] What's this? What's this? 
Alice gets her glass of wine, and goes. The Major 
is suddenly full of importance. 
BOOTH. What is this, Edward? 
EDWARD. I have something to say to you all. 
BOOTH. What? 
EDWARD. Well, Booth, you'll hear when I say it. 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 57 

BOOTH. Is it business? . . because I think this is scarce- 
ly the time for business. 
EDWARD. Why ? 

BOOTH. Do you find it easy and reverent to descend 
from your natural grief to the consideration of money . . ? 
I do not. [He finds trenchard at his elbow.'] I hope you 
are getting some lunch, Trenchard. 

EDWARD. This is business, and more than business, 
Booth. I choose now, because it is something I wish to 
say to the family, not write to each individually . . and it 
will be difficult to get us all together again. 

BOOTH. [Determined, at any rate, to give his saujction.^ 
Well, Trenchard, as Edward is in the position of trustee — 
executor . . I don't know your terms . , I suppose there's 
nothing more to be said. 
TRENCHARD. I don't scc what your objection is. 
BOOTH. [With some superiority.] Don't you? I should 
not have called myself a sentimental man, but . . 

EDWARD. You had better stay, Denis; you represent 
Ethel. 

TREGONiNG. [Who has not heard the beginning of this.] 
Why? . . 

HONOR has obediently come down from her room. 
She is pale and thin, shaken with grief and worn out 
besides; for, needless to say, the brunt of her father's 
illness, the brunt of everything, has been on her. 
Six weeks' nursing, part of it hopeless, will exhaust 
anyone. Her handkerchief to her eyes, and every 
minute or two she cascades tears, edward goes and 
affectionately puts his arm round her. 
EDWARD. My dear Honor, I am sorry to be so . . so 
merciless. There ! . . there ! [He hands her into the 
room; then shuts the door; then turns and once more sur- 
veys the family, who this time mostly return the compli- 
ment. Then he says shortly.] I think you might all sit 



58 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act hi 

down. [But he goes close to his mother and speaks very 
distinctly, very kindly.'] IMother, we're all going to have a 
little necessary talk over matters , . now, because it's 
most convenient. I hope it won't . . I hope you don't 
mind. Will you come to the table? 

MRS. VOYSEY looks Up OS if Understanding more than 
he says. 
MRS. VOYSEY. Edward . . 
EDWARD. Yes, mother? 

BOOTH. [Cotnmandingly.'] You'll sit here, mother, of 
course. 

He places her in her accustomed chair at the foot 
of the table. One by one the others sit down, 
EDWAR3 apparently last. But then he discovers that 
HUGH has lost himself in a corner of the room and 
is gazing into vacancy. 
EDWARD. Hugh, would you mind attending? 
HUGH. What is it? 
EDWARD. There's a chair. 

HUGH takes it. Then for a minute — while edward 
is trying to frame in coherent sentences what he 
must say to them — for a minute there is silence, 
broken only by honor's sniffs, which culminate at 
last in a noisy little cascade of tears. 
booth. Honor, control yourself. 

And to emphasise his ozvn perfect control he helps 
himself majestically to a glass of sherry. Then 
says . . 
BOOTH. Well, Edward? 

EDWARD. I'll come straight to the point which concerns 
you. Our father's will gives certain sums to you all . . 
the gross amount something over a hundred thousand 
pounds. There will be no money. 

He can get no further than the bare statement, 
which is received only with varying looks of be- 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 59 

wilderment, until MRS. voysey^ discovering nvthing 
from their faces, breaks this second silence. 

MRS. VOYSEY. I didn't hear. 

HUGH, lln his mother's ear.'] Edward says there's 
no money. 

TRENCHARD. {Precisely.'] I think you said . . 'will be.' 

BOOTH. {In a tone of mitigated thunder.] Why will 
there be no money? 

EDWARD. {Letting himself go.] Because every penny by 
right belongs to those clients whom our father spent his 
life in defrauding. When I say defrauding, I mean it in 
its worst sense . . swindling . . thieving. I have been 
in the swim of it, for the past year . . oh, you don't know 
the sink of iniquity . . and therefore I mean to collect 
every penny, any money that you can give me ; put the firm 
into bankruptcy; pay back all these people what we can. 
I'll stand my trial . . it'll come to that with me . . and as 
soon as possible. {He pauses, partly for breath, and glares 
at them all.] Are none of you going to speak? Quite 
right, what is there to be said ! {Then with a gentle after- 
thought.] I'm sorry to hurt you, mother. 

The VOYSEY family is simply buried deep by this 
avalanche of horror, mrs. voysey, though, who 
has been watching edward closely, says very calmly. 

MRS. VOYSEY. I Can't hear quite all you say, but I guess 
what it is. You don't hurt me, Edward . . I have known 
of this for a long time. 

EDWARD. {With almost a cry.] Oh, mother, did he 
know you knew? 

MRS. VOYSEY. What do you say ? 

TRENCHARD. {Collected and dry.] I may as well tell 
you, Edward, I suspected everything wasn't right about 
the time of my last quarrel with my father. Of course, I 
took care not to pursue my suspicions. Was father aware 
that you knew, Mother? 



60 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act m 

MRS. VOYSEY. We ncvcr discussed it. There was once 
a great danger . . when you were all younger . . of his 
being found out. But we never discussed it. 

EDWARD. \_S IV allowing a fresh bitterness.'] I'm glad 
it isn't such a shock to all of you. 

HUGH. [Alive to a dramatic aspect of the matter.'] My 
God . . before the earth has settled on his grave ! 

EDWARD. I thought it wrong to postpone telling you. 
HONOR, the word swindling having spelt itself out 
in her mind, at last gives way to a hurst of piteous 
grief. 
HONOR. Oh, poor papa ! . . poor papa ! 
EDWARD. [Comforting her kindly.] Honor, we shall 
want your help and advice. 

The Major has recovered from the shock, to swell 

with importance. It being necessary to make an 

impression he instinctively turns first to his wife. 

BOOTH. I think, Emily, there was no need for you to 

have been present at this exposure, and that now you had 

better retire. 

EMILY. Very well, Booth. 

She gets up to go, conscious of her misdemeanour. 

But as she reaches the door, an awful thought 

strikes the Major. 

BOOTH. Good Heavens . . I hope the servants haven't 

been listening! See where they are, Emily . . and keep 

them away, distract them. Open the door suddenly. [She 

does so, more or less, and there is no one behind it.] That's 

all right. 

Having watched his wife's departure, he turns 
with gravity to his brother. 
BOOTH. I have said nothing as yet, Edward. I am 
thinking. 

TRENCHARD. [A little impatient at this exhibition.] 
That's the worst of these family practices . . a lot of 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 61 

money knocking around and no audit ever required. The 
wonder to me is to find an honest solicitor at all. 

BOOTH. Really, Trenchard ! 

TRENCHARD. Well, the more able a man is the less the 
word Honesty bothers him . . and the Pater was an able 
man. 

EDWARD. I thought that a year ago, Trenchard. T 
thought that at the worst he was a splendid criminal. 

BOOTH. Really . . really, Edward ! 

EDWARD. And everything was to come right in the end 
. . we were all to be in reality as wealthy and as pros- 
perous as we have seemed to be all these years. But 
when he fell ill . . towards the last he couldn't keep* the 
facts from me any longer. 

TRENCHARD. And thcse are? 

EDWARD. Laughable. You wouldn't believe there were 
such fools in the world as some of these wretched clients 
have been. I tell you the firm's funds were just a lucky 
bag into which he dipped. Now sometimes their money 
doesn't even exist. 

BOOTH. Where's it gone? 

EDWARD. [F^ry directly.'] You.'ve been living on it. 

BOOTH. Good God i 

TRENCHARD. What can you pay in the pound? 

EDWARD. Without help? . . six or seven shillings, I 
daresay. But we must do better than that. 
To which there is no response. 

BOOTH. All this is very dreadful. Does it mean beg- 
gary for the whole family? 

EDWARD. Yes, it should. 

TRENCHARD. [Sharply.] Nonsense ! 

EDWARD. [Joining issue at once.] What right have we 
to a thing we possess? 

TRENCHARD. He didn't make you an allowance, Booth 
. . your capital's your own, isn't it? 



6£ THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act hi 

BOOTH. [Awkwardly placed between the two of them.'] 
Really . . I — I suppose so. 

TRENCHARD. Then that's all right. 

EDWARD. [Vehemently.'] It's stolen money. 

TRENCHARD. Booth took it in good faith. 

BOOTH. I should hope so. 

EDWARD. [Dwelling on the words.] It's stolen money. 

BOOTH. [Bubbling with distress.] I say, what ought I 
to do? 

TRENCHARD. Do . . my dear Booth? Nothing. 

EDWARD. [With great indignation.] Trenchard, we owe 
reparation 

TRENCHARD. [RcodHy.] To whom ? From which ac- 
count was Booth's money taken? 

EDWARD. [Side tracked for the moment.] I don't know 
. . I daresay from none directly. 

TRENCHARD. Very well, then. 

EDWARD. [Grieved.] Trenchard, you argue as he did 

TRENCHARD. Nonscnsc, my dear Edward. The law will 
take anything it has a right to, and all it can get; you 
needn't be afraid. There's no obligation, legal or moral, 
for us to throw our pounds into the wreck, that they may 
become pence. 

EDWARD. I can hear him. 

TRENCHARD. But what about your own position . . can 
we get you clear ? 

EDWARD. That doesn't matter. 

booth's head has been turning incessantly from one 
to the other, and by this he is just a bristle of alarm. 

booth. But I say, you know, this is awful ! Will this 
have to be made public? 

TRENCHARD. No help for it. 

The Major's jaw drops; he is speechless, mrs. voy- 
SEv's dead voice steals in. 

MRS. VOYSEY. What is all tliis ? 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 63 

TRENCHARD. Edward wishes us to completely beggar 

ourselves in order to pay back to every client to whom 

father owed a pound perhaps ten shillings instead of seven. 

MRS. VOYSEY. He will find that my estate has been kept 

quite separate. 

EDWARD hides his face in his hands. 
TRENCHARD. I'm very glad to hear it, Mother. 
MRS. VOYSEY. When Mr. Barnes died, your father 
agreed to appointing another trustee. 

TREGONiNG. [Diffidently.^ I suppose, Edward, I'm in- 
volved. 

EDWARD. [Lifting his head quickly.'] Denis, I hope not. 

I didn't know that anything of yours 

TREGONING. Ycs . . all that I got under my aunt's will. 
EDWARD. You see how things are . . I've discovered no 
trace of that. We'll hope for the best. 

TREGONING. [Setting his teeth.] It can't be helped. 

MAJOR BOOTH Icans over the table and speaks in the 
loudest of whispers. 
BOOTH. Let me advise you to say nothing of this to 
Ethel at such a critical time. 

TREGONING. Thank you, Booth, naturally I shall not. 
HUGH, by a series of contortions, has lately been 
giving evidence of a desire or intention to say some- 
thing. 
EDWARD. Well, what is it, Hugh? 

HUGH. I have been wondering . . if he can hear this 
conversation. 

Up to now it has all been meaningless to honor, in 
her nervous dilapidation, but this remark brings a 
fresh burst of tears. 
HONOR. Oh, poor papa . . poor papa ! 
MRS. VOYSEY. I think I'll go to my room. I can't hear 
what any of you are saying. Edward can tell me after- 
wards. 



64 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iii 

EDWARD. Would you like to go, too, Honor? 

HONOR. [Through her sohs.'] Yes, please, I would. 

TREGONiNG. And I'll get out, Edward. Whatever you 
think fit to do . . Oh, well, I suppose there's only one 
thing to be done. 

EDWARD. Only that. 

TREGONING. I wish I Were in a better position as to 
work, for Ethel's sake and — and the child's. 

EDWARD. Shall I speak to Trenchard? 

TREGONING. No . . he kuows I exist in a wig and gown. 
If I can be useful to him, he'll be useful to me, I daresay. 
Good-bye, Hugh. Good-bye, Booth. 

By this time mrs. voysey and honor have been got 
out of the room; tregoning follows them. So the 
four brothers are left together, hugh is vacant, 
EDWARD does not speak, booth looks at trenchard, 
who settles himself to acquire information. 

trenchard. How long have things been wrong? 

EDWARD. He told me the trouble began in his father's 
time, and that he'd been battling with it ever since. 

TRENCHARD. \_Smiling.'] Oh, come now . . that's im- 
possible. 

EDWARD. But I believed him ! Now I look through his 
papers, I can find only one irregularity that's more than 
ten years old, and that's only to do with old George 
Booth's business. 

BOOTH. But the Pater never touched his money . . why, 
he was a personal friend. 

EDWARD. Did you hear what Denis said? 

TRENCHARD.. Very curious his evolving that fiction about 
his father . . I wonder why. I remember the old man. 
He was as honest as the day. 

EDWARD. To gain sympathy, I suppose. 

TRENCHARD. I think oue can trace the psychology of it 
deeper than that. It would add a fitness to the situation 



ACT in] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 65 

. . his handing on to you an inheritance he had received. 
You know every criminal has a touch of the artist in him. 

HUGH. {^Suddenly roused.'] That's true. 

TRENCHARD. What position did you take upon the mat- 
ter when he told you ? 

EDWARD. ^Shrugging.] You know what the Pater was 
as well as I. 

TRENCHARD. Well . . what did you attempt to do? 

EDWARD. I urged him to start by making some of the 
smaller accounts right. He said . . he said that would be 
penny wise and pound foolish. So I did what I could 
myself. 

TRENCHARD. With your own money? 

EDWARD. The little I had. 

TRENCHARD. Can you prove that you did that? 

EDWARD. I suppose I could. 

TRENCHARD. It's a gOOd poiut. 

BOOTH. [Not to be quite left out.] Yes, I must say 

TRENCHARD. You ought to have written him a letter, 
and left the firm the moment you found out. Even then, 
legally . . ! But as he was your father. What was his 
object in telling you? What did he expect you to do? 

EDWARD. I've thought of every reason . . and now I 
really believe it was that he might have someone to boast 
to of his financial exploits. 

TRENCHARD. [Appreciatively.'] I daresay. 

BOOTH. Scarcely matters to boast of. 

TRENCHARD. Oh, you try playing the fool with other 
people's money, and keeping your neck out of the noose 
for twelve years. It's not so easy. 

EDWARD. Then, of course, he always protested that 
things would come right . . that he'd clear the firm and 
have a fortune to the good. Or that if he were not spared 
I might do it. But he must have known that was impos- 
sible, 



66 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act in 

TRENCHARD. But there's the gambler all over. 

EDWARD. Why, he actually took the trouble to draw up 
this will ! 

TRENCHARD. That was childish. 

EDWARD, I'm the sole executor. 

TRENCHARD. So I should think . . Was I down for 
anything? 

EDWARD. No. 

TRENCHARD. [Without resentmefit.'] How he did hate 
me ! 

EDWARD. You're safe from the results of his affection, 
anyway. 

TRENCHARD. What on earth made you stay in the firm, 
once you knew? 

EDWARD does not answer for a moment. 
EDWARD. I thought I might prevent things from getting 
any worse. I think I did . . well, I should have done that 
if he'd lived. 

TRENCHARD. You kuew the risk you were running? 
EDWARD. [^Bowing his head.] Yes. 

TRENCH ARD_, the ojily oue of the three who compre- 
hends, looks at his brother for a moment with some- 
thing that might almost be admiration. Then he 
stirs himself. 
TRENCHARD. I must be off. Busiucss waiting . . end 
of term, you know. 

BOOTH. Shall I walk to the station with you? 
TRENCHARD. I'll Spend a few minutes with Mother. 
[He says, at the door, very respectfully.'] You'll count on 
my professional assistance, please, Edward. 
EDWARD. [Simply.] Thank you, Trenchard. 

So TRENCHARD gocs. And the Major, who has been 
endeavouring to fathom his final attitude, then com- 
ments 

BOOTH. No heart, y'know 1 Great brain! If it hadn't 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 67 

been for that distressing quarrel he might have saved our 
poor father. Don't you think so, Edward? 

EDWARD. Perhaps. 

HUGH. IGiving vent to his thoughts at last with some- 
thing of a relish.'] The more I think this out, the more 
devihshly humorous it gets. Old Booth breaking down by 
the grave . . Colpus reading the service . . 

EDWARD. Yes, the Vicar's badly hit. 

HUGH. Oh, the Pater had managed his business for 
years. 

BOOTH. Good God . . how shall v\re ever look old Booth 
in the face again? 

EDWARD. I don't worry about him; he can die quite 
comfortably enough on six shillings in the pound. It's 
one or two of the smaller fry who will suffer. 

BOOTH. Now, just explain to me . . I didn't interrupt 
while Trenchard was talking . . of what exactly did this 
defrauding consist? 

EDWARD. Speculating with a client's capital . . pocket- 
ing the gains, cutting the losses; meanwhile paying the 
cHent his ordinary income. 

BOOTH. So that he didn't find it out? 

EDWARD. Quite so. 

BOOTH. In point of fact, he doesn't suffer? 

EDWARD. He doesn't suffer till he finds it out. 

BOOTH. And all that's wrong now is that some of their 
capital is missing. 

EDWARD. {Half amused, half amazed at this process of 
reasoning.'] Yes, that's all that's wrong. 

BOOTH. What is the ah — deficit? [The word rolls from 
his tongue.] 

EDWARD. Anything between two and three hundred 
thousand pounds. 

BOOTH. [Very impressed, and not unfavourably.'] Dear 
me . . this is a big affair ! 



eS THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act m 

HUGH. [Following his own line of thought.] Quite 
apart from the rights and wrongs of this, only a very able 
man could have kept a straight face to the v^orld all these 
years, as Pater did. 

BOOTH. I suppose he sometimes made money by these 
speculations. 

EDWARD. Very often. His own expenditure was heavy, 
as you know. 

BOOTH. [With gratitude for favors received. 1 He was 
a very generous man. 

HUGH. Did nobody ever suspect him? 

EDWARD. You see, Hugh, when there was any danger 
. . when a trust had to be wound up . . he'd make a great 
effort, and put the accounts straight. 

BOOTH. Then he did put some accounts straight? 

EDWARD. Yes, when he couldn't help himself. 

BOOTH looks very enquiring, and then squares him- 
self up to the subject. 

BOOTH. Now look here, Edward. You told us that he 
told you that it was the object of his life to put these ac- 
counts straight. Then you laughed at that. Now you tell 
me that he did put some accounts straight. 

EDWARD. [Wearily.] My dear Booth, you don't under- 
stand. 

BOOTH. Well, let me understand . . I am anxious to 
understand. 

EDWARD. We can't pay ten shillings in the pound. 

BOOTH. That's very dreadful. But do you know that 
there wasn't a time when we couldn't have paid five? 

EDWARD. [Acquiescent.] I don't know. 

BOOTH. Very well, then ! If what he said was true 
about his father and all that . . and why shouldn't we be- 
lieve him if we can? . . and he did effect an improvement, 
that's all to his credit. Let us at least be juj^^ Edward. 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 69 

EDWARD. [Patiently polite.'] I am very sorry to appear 
unjust. He has left me in a rather unfortunate position. 

BOOTPi. Yes, his death was a tragedy. It seems to me 
that if he had been spared he might have succeeded at 
length in this tremendous task, and restored to us our 
family honour. 

EDWARD. Yes, Booth, he spoke very feelingly of that. 

BOOTH. [Irony lost upon him.'] I can well believe it. 
And I can tell you that now . . I may be right or I may be 
wrong . . I am feeling far less concerned about the clients' 
money than I am at the terrible blow to the Family which 
this exposure will strike. Money, after all, can tO' a cer- 
tain extent be done without . . but Honour 

This is too much for edward. 

EDWARD. Our honour ! Does one of you mean to give 
me a single penny towards undoing all the wrong that 
has been done? 

BOOTH. I take Trenchard's word for it that that would 
be illegal. 

EDWARD. Well . . don't talk to me of honour. 

BOOTH. [Somewhat nettled at this outburst.] I am 
speaking of the public exposure. Edward, can't that be 
prevented? 

EDWARD. [With quick suspicion.] How? 

BOOTH. Well . . how was it being prevented before he 
died — before we knew anything about it? 

EDWARD. [Appealing to the spirits that watch over him.] 
Oh, listen to this ! First Trenchard . . and now you ! 
You've the poison in your blood, every one of you. Who 
am I to talk? I daresay so have I. 

BOOTH. [Reprovingly.] I am beginning to think that 
you have worked yourself into rather an hysterical state 
over this unhappy business. 

EDWARD. [Rating him.] Perhaps you'd have been glad 
. . glad if I'd held my tongue and gone on lying and cheat- 



70 THE VOVSEV INHERITANCE [act hi 

ing . . and married and begotten a son to go on lying and 
cheating after me . . and to pay you your interest . . your 
interest in the lie and the cheat. 

BOOTH. [With statesmanlike calmJ] Look here, Edward, 
this rhetoric is exceedingly out of place. The simple ques- 
tion before us is . . What is the best course to pursue? 

EDWARD. There is no question before us. There's only 
one course to pursue. 

BOOTH. [^Criishingly.'] You will let me speak, please. 
In so far as our poor father was dishonest to his chents, 
I pray that he may be forgiven. In so far as he spent his 
life honestly endeavouring to right a wrong which he had 
found already committed . . I forgive him. I admire him, 
Edw^ard. And I feel it my duty to — er — reprobate most 
strongly the — er — gusto with which you have been hold- 
ing him up in memory to us . . ten minutes after we have 
stood round his grave . . as a monster of wickedness. I 
think I may say I knew him as well as you . . better. And 
. . thank God ! . . there was not between him and me this 
— this unhappy business to warp my judgment of him. 
\^He warms to his subject,'] Did you ever know a more 
charitable man . . a larger-hearted? He was a faithful 
husband . . and what a father to all of us, putting us out 
into the world and fully intending to leave us comfortably 
settled there. Further . . as I see this matter, Edward . . 
when as a young man he was told this terrible secret, and 
entrusted with such a frightful task . . did he turn his 
back on it like a coward? No. He went through it hero- 
ically to the end of his life. And as he died I imagine 
there was no more torturing thought than that he had left 
his work unfinished. [He is very satisfied with this pero- 
ration.] And now if all these clients can be kept receiving 
their natural income, and if Father's plan could be carried 

out of gradually replacing the capital 

EDWARD at this raises his head and stares with horror. 



ACT m] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 71 

EDWARD. You're appealing to me to carry on this . . 
Oh, you don't know what you're talking about ! 

The Major, having talked himself back to a proper 
eminence, remains good-tempered. 
BOOTH. Well, Fm not a conceited man . . but I do think 
that I can understand a simple financial problem when it 
has been explained to me. 

EDWARD. You don't know the nerve . . the unscrupu- 
lous daring it requires to 

BOOTH. Of course, if you're going to argue round your 

own incompetence 

EDWARD. \_Very straight.'] D'you want your legacy? 
BOOTH. [With dignity.'] In one moment I shall get 
very angry. Here am I doing my best to help you and 
your clients . . and there you sit imputing to me the most 
sordid motives. Do you suppose I should touch or allow 
to be touched the money which father has left us till every 
client's claim was satisfied? 

EDWARD. My dear Booth, I'm sure you mean well 

BOOTH. I'll come down to your office and work with you. 
At this cheerful prospect even poor edward can't 
help smiling. 
EDWARD. Why, you'd be found out at once. 
BOOTH. [Feeling that it is a chance lost.] Well, of 
course the Pater never consulted me. I only know what I 
feel ought to be possible. I can but make the suggestion. 
At this point trench ard looks round the door to 
say . . 
trenchard. Are you coming, Booth ? 
booth. Yes, certainly. I'll talk this over with Tren- 
chard. [As he gets up and automatically stiffens, he is re- 
minded of the occasion, and his voice drops.] I say . . 
we've been speaking very loud. You must do nothing rash. 
I've no doubt I can devise something which will obviate . . 
and then I'm sure I shall convince you . . [Glancing into 



7S THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act m 

the hall, he apparently catches trenchard's impatient eye, 
for he departs abruptly, saying . . ] All right, Trenchard, 
you've eight minutes. 

booth's departure leaves hugh^ at any rate, really 
at his ease. 
HUGH. What an experience for you, Edward ! 
EDWARD. [Bitterly.'] And I feared what the shock 
might be to you all ! Booth has made a good recovery. 

HUGH. You wouldn't have him miss such a chance of 
booming at us all? 

EDWARD. It's strange the number of people who believe 
you can do right by means which they know to be wrong. 
HUGH. [Taking great interest in this.] Come, what do 
we know about right and wrong? Let's say legal and 
illegal. You're so down on the Governor because he has 
trespassed against the etiquette of your own profession. 
But now he's dead . . and if there weren't the disgrace to 
think of . . it's no use the rest of us pretending to feel 
him a criminal, because we don't. Which just shows that 

money . . and property 

At this point he becomes conscious that alice mait- 
LAND is standing behind him, her eyes fixed on his 
brother. So he interrupts himself to ask . . 
HUGH. D'you want to speak to Edward? 
ALICE. Please, Hugh. 
HUGH. I'll go. 

He goes, a little martyrlike, to conclude the evolu- 
tion of his theory in soliloquy; his usual fate, alice 
still looks at EDWARD with soft eyes, and he at her 
rather appealingly. 
ALICE. Auntie has told me. 

EDWARD. He was fond of you. Don't think worse of 
him than you can help. 

ALICE. I'm thinking of yOu. 
EDWARD. I may just escape. 



ACT ml THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 73 



ALICE. So Trenchard says. 

EDWARD. My hands are clean, Alice. 

ALICE. [Her voice falling lovingly.] I know that. 

EDWARD. Mother's not very upset. 

ALICE. She had expected a smash in his life time. 

EDWARD. I'm glad that didn't happen. 

ALICE. Yes . . as the fault was his it won't hurt you 
so much to stand up to the blame. 

EDWARD looks puszled at this for a moment, then 
gives it up. 

EDWARD. I'm hurt enough now. 

ALICE. Why, what have the boys done ? It was a mercy 
to tell Honor just at this time. She can grieve for his 
death and his disgrace at the same time . . and the one 
grief lessens the other perhaps. 

EDWARD. Oh, they're all shocked enough at the disgrace 
. . but will they open their purses to lessen the disgrace? 

ALICE. Will it seem less disgraceful to have stolen ttn 
thousand pounds than twenty ? 

EDWARD. I should think so. 

ALICE. I should think so, but I wonder if that's the 
Law. If it isn't, Trenchard wouldn't consider the point. 
I'm sure Public Opinion doesn't say so . . and that's what 
Booth is considering. 

EDWARD. [With contempt.'] Yes. 

ALICE. [Ever so gently ironical.] Well, he's in the 
Army . . he's almost in Society . . and he has to get on 
in both; one mustn't blame him. Of course, if the money 
could have been given up with a flourish of trumpets . . ! 
But even then I doubt whether the advertisement would 
bring in what it cost. 

EDWARD. {Very serious.] But when one thinks how the 
money was obtained ! 

ALICE. When one thinks how mobt money is obtained ! 

EDWARD. They've not earned it. 



74 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iii 

ALICE. [Her eyes humorous.'] If they had, they might 
have given it you and earned more. Did I ever tell you 
what my guardian said to me when I came of age? 

EDWARD. I'm thankful your money's not been in danger. 

ALICE. It might have been, but I was made to look after 
it myself . . much against my will. My guardian was a 
person of great character and no principles, the best and 
most lovable man I've ever met . . I'm sorry you never 
knew him, Edward . . and he said once to me . . You've 
no right to your money. You've not earned it or deserved 
it in any way. Therefore, don't be surprised or annoyed 
if any enterprising person tries to get it from you. He 
has at least as much right to it as you have . . if he can 
use it better, he has more right. Shocking sentiments, 
aren't they? No respectable man of business could own to 
them. But I'm not so sorry for some of these clients as 
you are, Edward. 

EDWARD shakes his head, treating these paradoxes as 
they deserve. 

EDWARD. Alice . . one or two of them will be beggared. 

ALICE. \_Sincerely.] Yes, that is serious. What's to be 
done? 

EDWARD. There's old nurse . . with her poor little sav- 
ings gone ! 

ALICE. Surely those can be spared her? 

EDWARD. The Law's no respecter of persons . . that's 
its boast. Old Booth, with more than he wants, will keep 
enough. My old nurse, with just enough, may starve. But it'll 
be a relief to clear out this nest of lies, even though one 
suffers one's self. I've been ashamed to walk into that 
office, Alice . . I'll hold my head high in prison, though. 

He shakes himself stiffly erect, his chin high, alice 
quizzes him. 

ALICE. Edward, I'm afraid you're feeling heroic. 

EDWARD. I ! 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 75 

ALICE. Don't be so proud of your misfortune. You 
looked quite like Booth for the moment. [This effectually 
removes the starch.'] It will be very stupid to send you to 
prison, and you must do your best to keep out. [She goes 
on very practically.'] We were discussing if anything could 
be done for these one or two people who'll be beggared. 

EDWARD. Yes, Alice. I'm sorry nothing can be done 
for them. 

ALICE. It's a pity. 

EDWARD. I suppose I was feeling heroic. I didn*t mean 
to. 

He has become a little like a child with her. 

ALICE. That's the worst of acting on principle . . one 
begins thinking of one's attitude instead of the use of what 
one is doing. 

EDWARD. I'm exposing this fraud on principle. 

ALICE. Perhaps that's what's wrong. 

EDWARD. Wrong ! 

ALICE. My dear Edward, if people are to be ruined . . ! 

EDWARD. What else is there to be done? 

ALICE. Well . . have you thought ? 

EDWARD. There's nothing else to be done. 

ALICE. On principle. 

He looks at her; she is smiling, it is true, but smiling 
quite gravely, edward is puzzled. Then the yeast 
of her suggestion begins to work in his mind slowly, 
perversely at first. 

EDWARD. It had occurred to Booth . . . 

ALICE. Oh, anything may occur to Booth. 

EDWARD. . . In his grave concern for the family hon- 
our that I might quietly cheat the firm back into credit 
again. 

ALICE. How stupid of Booth ! 

EDWARD. Well . . like my father . . Booth believes in 
himself. 



76 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act m 

ALICE. Yes, he's rather a credulous man. 

EDWARD. [Ignoring her little joke.'] He might have 
been lucky, and have done some good. I'm a weak sort of 
creature — just a collection of principles, as you say. Look, 
all I've been able to do in this business . . at the cost of 
my whole life perhaps . . has been to sit senselessly by my 
father's side and prevent things going from bad to worse. 

ALICE. That was worth doing. The cost is your own 
affair. 

She is watching him, stilly and closely. Suddenly 
his face lights a little, and he turns to her. 

EDWARD. Alice . . there's something else I could do. 

ALICE. What? 

EDWARD. It's illegal. 

ALICE. So much the better, perhaps. Oh, I'm lawless 
by birthright, being a woman. 

EDWARD. I could take the money that's in my father's 
name, and use it only to put right the smaller accounts. 
It^d take a few months to do it well . . and cover the 
tracks. That'd be necessary. 

ALICE. Then you'd give yourself up as you'd meant to 
do now? 

EDWARD. Yes . . practically. 

ALICE. It'd be worse for you then at the trial? 

EDWARD. [With a touch of another sort of pride.] You 
said that was my affair. 

ALICE. [Pain in her voice and eyes.] Oh, Edward ! 

EDWARD. Shall I do this? 

ALICE. [Turning away.] Why must you ask me? 

EDWARD. You mocked at my principles, didn't you? 
You've taken them from me. The least you can do 
is to give me advice in exchange. 

ALICE. [After a moment.] No . . decide for yourself. 
He jumps up, and begins to pace about, doubtful, 
distressed. 



ACT III] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 77 

EDWARD. Good Lord . . it means lying and shuffling ! 

ALICE. [A little trembling.l In a good cause, 

EDWARD. Ah . . but lying and shuffling takes the fine 
edge off one's soul. 

ALICE. [Laughing at the quaintness of her own little 
epigram.^ Edward, are you one of God's dandies ? 

EDWARD. And . . Alice, it wouldn't be easy work. It 
wants qualities I haven't got. I should fail. 

ALICE. Would you? 

He catches a look from her. 

EDWARD. Well, I might not. 

ALICE. And you don't need success for a lure. That's 
like a common man. 

EDWARD. You want me to try to do this ? 

For answer she dares only put out her hand, and he 
takes it. 

ALICE. Oh, my dear . . cousin ! 

EDWARD. [Excitedly.'] My people will have to hold 
their tongues. I needn't have told them all this to-day. 

ALICE. Don't tell them the rest . . they won't under- 
stand. I shall be jealous if you tell them. 

EDWARD. [Looking at her as she at him.] Well, you've 
the right to be. This deed . . it's not done yet . . is your 
property. 

ALICE. Thank you. I've always wanted to have some- 
thing useful to my credit . . and I'd almost given up 
hoping. 

Then suddenly his face changes, his voice changes, 
and he grips the hand he is holding so tightly as to 
hurt her. 

EDWARD. Alice, if my father's story were true . . he 
must have begun like this. Trying to do the right thing 
in the wrong way . . then doing the wrong thing . . then 
bringing himself to what he was . . and so me to this. 
[He flings away from her.] No, Alice, I won't do it. I 



78 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iii 

daren't take that first step down. It's a worse risk than 
any failure. Think . . I might succeed. 

ALICE stands very still, looking at him. 
ALICE. It's a big risk. Well . . I'll take it. 

He turns to her in wonder, 

EDWARD. You ? 

ALICE. I'll risk your becoming a bad man. That's a 
big risk for me. 

He understands, and is calmed and made happy. 
EDWARD. Then there is no more to be said, is there ? 
ALICE. Not now. \_As she drops this gentle hint she 
hears something — the hall door opening.'] Here's 
Booth back again. 

EDWARD. [With a really mischievous grin.] He'll be 
so glad he's convinced me. 

ALICE. I must go back to Honor, poor girl. I wonder 
she has a tear left. 

She leaves him briskly, brightly; leaves her cousin 
with his mouth set and a light in his eyes. 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 79 



THE FOURTH ACT 

MR. voYSEY^s room at the office is Edward's now. It has 
somehovu lost that brilliancy which the old man's 
occupation seemed to give it. Perhaps it is only 
because this December morning is dull and depress- 
ing, but the fire isn't bright, and the panels and zvin- 
dows don't shine as they did. There are no roses 
on the table, either, edward, walking in as his 
father did, hanging his hat and coat where his 
father's used to hang, is certainly the palest shadow 
of that other masterful presence. A depressed, 
drooping shadow, too. This may be what peacey 
feels, if no more, for he looks very surly as he obeys 
the old routine of following his chief to this room on 
his arrival. Nor has edward so much as a glance 
for his clerk. They exchange the formalest of greet- 
ings. EDWARD sits joylessly to his desk, on which 
the morning's pile of letters lies, unopened now. 

PEACEY. Good morning, sir. 

EDWARD. Good morning, Peacey. Have you any notes 
for me? 

PEACEY. Well, I've hardly been through the letters yet, 
sir. 

EDWARD. [His eyebrows meeting.'] Oh . . and Fm half 
an hour late myself this morning. 

PEACEY. I'm very sorry, sir. 

EDWARD. If Mr. Bullen calls, you had better show him 
all those papers I gave you. Write to Metcalfe as soon as 



80 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

possible; say I interviewed Mr. Vickery myself this morn- 
ing, and the houses will not be proceeded with. Better let 
me see the letter. 

PEACEY. Very good, sir. 

EDWARD. That's all, thank you. 

PEACEY gets to the door, zvhere he stops, looking not 
only surly but nervous now. 

PEACEY. May I speak to you a moment, sir? 

EDWARD. Certainly. 

PEACEY, after a moment, makes an effort, purses his 
mouth, and begins. 

PEACEY. Bills are beginning to come in upon me as is 
usual at this season, sir. My son's allowance at Cambridge 
is now rather a heavy item of my expenditure. I hope 
that the custom of the firm isn't to be neglected now that 
you are the head of it, Mr. Edward. Two hundred your 
father always made it at Christmas . . in notes, if you 
please. 

Towards the end of this edward begins to pay great 
attention. When he answers his voice is harsh. 

EDWARD. Oh, to be sure . . your hush money. 

PEACEY. [Bridling.'] That's not a very pleasant word. 

EDWARD. This is a very unpleasant subject. 

PEACEY. I'm sure it isn't my wish to bring out in cold 
conversation what I know of the firm's position. Your 
father always gave me the notes in an envelope when he 
shook hands with me at Christmas. 

EDWARD. IBlandly.l And I've been waiting for you to 
ask me. 

peaceV. Well, we'll say no more about it. There's 
always a bit of friction in coming to an understanding 
about anything, isn't there, sir? 

He is going, zvhen edward's question stops him. 

EDWARD. Why didn't you speak to me about this last 
Christmas ? 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 81 

PEACEY. I knew you were upset at your father's death. 

EDWARD. No, no. My father died the August before 
that. 

PEACEY. Well . . truthfully, Mr. Edward? 

EDWARD. As truthfully as you think suitable. 

The irony of this is wasted on peacey^ who becomes 
pleasantly candid. 

PEACEY. Well, I couldn't make you out last Christmas. 
I*d always thought there must be a smash when your father 
died . . but it didn't come. But then again at Christmas 
you seemed all on edge, and I didn't know what might hap- 
pen. So I thought I'd better keep quiet and say nothing. 

EDWARD. I see. This little pull of yours over the firm 
is an inheritance from your father, isn't it? 

PEACEY. [Discreetly. 1 When he retired, sir, he said to 
me . . I've told the Governor you know what I know. 
And Mr. Voysey said to me . . *I treat you as I did your 
father, Peacey.' I never had another word on the subject 
with him. 

EDWARD. A very decent arrangement. Your son's at 
Cambridge, you say, Peacey? 

PEACEY. Yes. 

EDWARD. I wonder you didn't bring him into the firin. 

PEACEY. [Taking this very kind.'] Thank you, sir . . 
I thought of it. But then I thought that two generations 
going in for this sort of thing was enough. 

EDWARD. That's a matter of taste. 

PEACEY. And then, sir . . I don't want to hurt your 
feelings, but things simply cannot go on for ever. The 
marvel to me is that the game has been kept up as it has. 
So now, if he does well at Cambridge, I hope he'll go to 
the bar. He has a distinct talent for patiently applying 
himself to the details of a thing. 

EDWARD. I hope he'Jl do well. I'm glad to have had 



82 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

this talk with you, Peacey. Tm sorry you can't have the 
money you want. 

He returns to his letters, a little steely-eyed, peacey, 
quite at his ease, makes for the door yet again, say- 
ing . . 

PEACEY. Oh, any time will do, sir. 

EDWARD. You can't have the money at all. 

PEACEY. [Brought up short.'] Can't I? 

EDWARD. [Very decidedly indeed.] No . . I made up 

my mind about that eighteen months ago. Since my 

father's death the trust business of the firm has not been 

conducted as it was formerly. We no longer make illicit 

profits out of our clients. There are none for you to share. 

Having thus given the explanation he considers due, 

he goes on with his work. But peacey has flushed 

up. 

PEACEY. Look here, Mr. Edward, I'm sorry I began 
this discussion. You'll give me my two hundred as usual, 
please, and we'll drop the subject. 

EDWARD. By all means drop the subject. 

PEACEY. [His voice rising sharply.] I want the money. 
I think it is not gentlemanly in you, Mr. Edward, to make 
these excuses to try to get out of paying it me. Your 
father would never have made such an excuse. 

EDWARD. [Flabbergasted.] Do you think I'm lying to 
you? 

PEACEY. [With a deprecating swallow.] I don't wish 
to criticise your statements or your actions at all, sir. It 
was no concern of mine how your father treated his 
clients. 

EDWARD. I understand. And now it's no concern of 
yours how honest I am. You want your money just the 
same. 

PEACEY. Well, don't be sarcastic . . a man does get 
used to a state of affairs whatever it may be. 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 83 

EDWARD. [With considerable forceJ] My friend, if I 
drop sarcasm I shall have to tell you very candidly what I 
think of you. 

PEACEY. That I'm a thief because I've taken money 
from a thief! 

EDWARD. Worse than a thief. You're content that 
others should steal for you. 

PEACEY. And who isn't? 

EDWARD is really pleased with the aptness of this. 
He at once changes his tone, which indeed had 
become rather bullying. 

EDWARD. Ah, Peacey, I perceive that you study soci- 
ology. Well, that's too big a question to enter into now. 
The application of the present portion of it is that I have 
for the moment, at some inconvenience to myself, ceased 
to receive stolen goods and therefore am in a position to 
throw a stone at you. I have thrown it. 

PEACEY, who would far sooner be bullied than 
talked to like this, turns very sulky. 

PEACEY. And now I'm to leave the firm, I suppose? 

EDWARD. Not unless you wish. 

PEACEY. I happen to think the secret's worth its price. 

EDWARD. Perhaps someone will pay it you. 

PEACEY. IFeebly threatening.^ You're presuming upon 
its not being worth my while to make use of what I know. 

EDWARD. [Not unkindly.'] My good Peacey, it happens 
to be the truth I told you just now. Well, how on earth 
do you suppose you can successfully blackmail a man, who 
has so much to gain by exposure and so little to lose as I ? 

PEACEY. [Peeving.] I don't want to ruin you, sir, and 
I have a great regard for the firm . . but you must see 
that I can't have my income reduced in this way without 
a struggle. 

EDWARD. [With great cheerfulness.] Very well, my 
friend, struggle away. 



84 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

PEACEY. [His voice rising high and thin.'] For one 
thing, sir, I don't think it fair dealing on your part to dock 
the money suddenly. I have been counting on it most of 
the year, and I have been led into heavy expenses. Why 
couldn't you have warned me? 

EDWARD. That's true, Peacey, it was stupid of me. I 
apologise for the mistake. 

PEACEY is a little comforted by this quite candid 
acknowledgment. 

PEACEY, Perhaps things may be easier for you by next 
Christmas. 

EDWARD. I hope so. 

PEACEY. Then . . perhaps you won't be so particular. 
At this gentle insinuation edward looks up exasper- 
ated. 

EDWARD. So you don't believe what I told you? 

PEACEY. Yes, I do. 

EDWARD. Then you think that the fascination of swin- 
dhng one's clients will ultimately prove irresistible? 

PEACEY. It's what happened to your father, I suppose 
you know. 

This gives edward such pause that he drops his 
masterful tone. 

EDWARD. I didn't. 

PEACEY. He got things as right as rain once. 

EDWARD. Did he? 

PEACEY. . . My father told me. Then he started again. 

EDWARD. But how did you find that out? 

PEACEY. [Expanding pleasantly.} Well, being so long 
in his service, I grew to understand your father. But 
when I first came into the firm, I simply hated him. He 
was that sour ; so snappy with everyone . . as if he had a 
grievance against the whole world. 

EDWARD. [Pensively.] It seems he had in those days. 

PEACEY. Well, as I said, his dealings with his clients 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 65 

were no business of mine. And I speak as I find. He 
was very kind to me . . always thoughtful and considerate. 
He grew to be so pleasant and generous to everyone 

EDWARD. That you have great hopes of me yet ? 

PEACEY. [Who has a simple mind.'] No, Mr. Edward, 
no. You're different from your father . . one must make 
up one's mind to that. And you may believe me or not 
but I should be very glad to know that the firm was solvent 
and going straight. There have been times when I have 
sincerely regretted my connection with it. If you'll let 
me say so, I think it's very noble of you to have undertaken 
the work you have. [Then, as everything seems smooth 
again.] And Mr. Edward, if you'll give me enough to 
cover this year's extra expense I think I may promise you 
that I shan't expect money again. 

EDWARD. {^Good-tempered, as he would speak to an 
importunate child.] No, Peacey, no ! 

PEACEY. {Fretful again.] Well, sir, you make things 
very difficult for me. 

EDWARD. Here's a letter from Mr. Cartwright which 
you might attend to. If he wants an appointment with me, 
don't make one till the New Year. His case can't come 
on before February. 

PEACEY. {Taking the letter.] I am anxious to meet you 
in every way {He is handed another.'] 

EDWARD. "Perceval Building Estate" . . that's yours, 
too. 

PEACEY. {Putting them both down resolutely.] But I 
refuse to be ignored. I must consider my whole position. 
I hope I may not be tempted to make use of the power I 
possess. But if I am driven to proceed to extremities . . 

EDWARD. {Breaking in upon this hunch of tags.] My 
dear Peacey, don't talk nonsense . . you couldn't proceed 
to an extremity to save your life. You've taken this money 
irresponsibly for all these years. You'll find you're no 



86 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

longer capable even of such a responsible act as tripping 
up your neighbour. 

This does completely upset the gentle blackmailer. 
He loses one grievance in another. 

PEACEY. Really, Mr. Edward, I am a considerably older 
man than you, and I think that whatever our positions 

EDWARD. Don't let us argue, Peacey. You're quite 
at liberty to do whatever you think worth while. 

PEACEY. It isn't that, sir. But these personalities 

EDWARD. Oh . . I apologise. Don't forget the letters. 

PEACEY. I will not, sir. 

He takes them with great dignity, and is leaving the 
room. 

PEACEY. Here's Mr. Hugh, waiting. 

EDWARD. To see me? Ask him in. 

PEACEY. Come in, Mr. Hugh, please. 

HUGH comes in, peacey holding the door for him 
with a frigid politeness of which he is quite oblivi- 
ous. At this final slight peacey goe^ out in dudgeon. 

EDWARD. How are you, Hugh? 

HUGH. Good Lord! 

And he throws himself into the chair by the fire. 
EDWARD, quite used to this sort of thing, goes quietly 
on with his work, adding, encouragingly, after a 
moment . . 

EDWARD. How's Beatrice? 

HUGH. She's very busy. 

He studies his boots with the gloomiest expression. 
And indeed, they are very dirty, and his turned-up 
trousers are muddy at the edge. They are dark 
trousers, and well cut, but he wears with them a loose 
coat and waistcoat of a pecidiar light brown check. 
Add to this the roughest of overcoats and a very soft 
hat. Add also the fact that he doesn't shave well or 
regularly, and that his hair wants cutting, and 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 87 

Hugh's appearance this morning is described. As he 
is quite capable of sitting silently By the fire for a 
whole morning, edward asks him at last . . 

EDWARD. What d'you want? 

HUGH. [With vehemence.'] I want a machine gun 
planted in Regent Street . . and one in the Haymarket . . 
and one in Leicester Square and one in the Strand . . and 
a dozen in the City. An earthquake would be simpler. Or 
why not a nice clean tidal wave? It's no good preaching 
and patching up any longer, Edward. We must begin 
afresh. Don't you feel, even in your calmer moments, 
that this whole country is simply hideous? The other 
nations must look after themselves. I'm patriotic . . I 
only ask that we should be destroyed. 

EDWARD. It has been promised. 

HUGH. I'm sick of waiting. [Then as edward says 
nothing.] You say this is the cry just of the weak man in 
despair ! I wouldn't be anything but a weak man in this 
world. I wouldn't be a king, I wouldn't be rich . . I 
wouldn't be a Borough Councillor . . I should be so 
ashamed. I've walked here this morning from Hamp- 
stead. I started to curse because the streets were dirty. 
You'd think that an Empire could keep its streets clean ! 
But then I saw that the children were dirty, too. 

EDWARD. That's because of the streets. 

HUGH. Yes, it's holiday time. Those that can cross a 
road safely are doing some work now . . earning some 
money. You'd think a governing race, grabbing responsi- 
bilities, might care for its children. 

EDWARD. Come, we educate them now. And I don't 
think many work in holiday time. 

HUGH. [Encouraged by contradiction.] We teach them 
all that we're not ashamed of . . and much that we ought 
to be . . and the rest they find out for themselves. Oh, 
every man and woman I met was muddy-eyed! They'd 



88 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

joined the great conspiracy which we call our civilization. 
They've been educated ! They believe in the Laws and the 
Money-market and Respectability. Well, at least they 
suffer for their beliefs. But I'm glad I don't make the laws 
. . and that I haven't any money . . and that I hate re- 
spectability . . or I should be so ashamed. By the bye, 
that's what I've come for. 

EDWARD. [Pleasantly.'] What? I thought you'd only 
come to talk. 

HUGH. You must take that money of mine for your 
clients. Of course you ought to have had it when you 
asked for it. It has never belonged to me. Well . . it has 
never done me any good. I have never made any use of it, 
and so it has been just a clog to my life. 

EDWARD. [Surprised.'] My dear Hugh . . this is very 
generous of you. 

HUGH. Not a bit. I only want to start fresh and free. 

EDWARD. [Sitting back from his zvork.] Hugh, do you 
really think that money has carried a curse with it? 

HUGH. [With great violence.] Think! I'm the proof 
of it, and look at me. When I said I'd be an artist the 
Governor gave me a hundred and fifty a year . . the rent 
of a studio and the price of a velvet coat he thought it; 
that was all he knew about Art. Then my respectable train- 
ing got me engaged and married. Marriage in a studio 
puzzled the Governor, so he guessed it at two hundred and 
fifty a year . . and looked for lay figure-babies, I suppose. 
What had I to do with Art? Nothing I've done yet but 
reflects our drawing-room at Chislehurst. 

EDWARD. [Considering.] Yes . . What do you earn in 
a year? I doubt if you can afford to give this up. 

HUGH. Oh, Edward . . you clank the chain with the 
best of them. That word Afford ! I want to be free from 
lay advantages. Don't you see I *nust find out what I'm 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 89 

worth in m y s e 1 f . . whether I even exist or not? Per- 
haps Fm only a pretence of a man animated by an income. 

EDWARD. But you Can't return to nature on the London 
pavements. 

HUGH. No. Nor in England at all . . it's nothing but a 
big back garden. \_Now he collects himself for a final out- 
hurst.'] But if there's no place on this earth where a man 
can prove his right to live by some other means than rob- 
bing his neighbour . . I'd better go and request the next 
horse I meet to ride me . . to the nearest lunatic asylum. 
EDWARD waits till the effects of this explosion are 
over. 

EDWARD. And what does Beatrice say to your emigrat- 
ing to the backwoods . . if that is exactly what you mean? 

HUGH. Now that we're separating 

EDWARD. [Taken aback.'] What? 

HUGH. We mean to separate. 

EDWARD. This is the first I've heard of it. 

HUGH. Beatrice is making some money by her books, 
so it has become possible. 

EDWARD. [Humorously.] Have you told anyone yet ? 

HUGH. We mean to now. I think a thing comes to 
pass quicker in public. 

EDWARD. Say nothing at home until after Christmas. 

HUGH. Oh, Lord, I forgot ! They'll discuss it solemnly. 
[Then he whistles.] Emily knows ! 

EDWARD. [Having considered.] I shan't accept this 
money from you . . there's no need. All the good has 
been done that I wanted to do. No one will be beggared 
now. So why should you be ? 

HUGH. [With clumsy affection.] We've taken a fine 
lot of interest in your labours, haven't we, Hercules? 

EDWARD. You hold your tongue about the office affairs, 
don't you? It's not safe. 

HUGH. When will you be quit of the beastly business? 



90 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

EDWARD. [Becoming reserved and cold at once.'] I'm in 
no hurry. 

HUGH. What do you gain by hanging on now? 

EDWARD. Occupation. 

HUGH. But, Edward, it must be an awfully wearying 
state of things. I suppose any moment a policeman may 
knock at the door . . so to speak? 

EDWARD. [Appreciating the figure of speech.'] Any 
moment. I take no precautions. I suppose that's why 
he doesn't come. At first I listened for him, day by day. 
Then I said to myself . . next week. But a year has 
gone by and more. I've ceased expecting to hear the 
knock at all. 

HUGH. But look here . . is all this worth while? 

EDWARD. [Supremely ironical.'] My dear Hugh, what 
a silly question ! 

HUGH. [Very seriously.] But have you the right to 
make a mean thing of your life like this? 

EDWARD. Does my life matter? 

HUGH. Well . . of course ! 

EDWARD. I find no evidence to convince me of it. The 
World that you talk about so finely is using me up. A 
little wantonly . . a little needlessly, I do think. But she 
knows her own damn business . . or so she says, if you 
try to teach it her. And why should I trouble to fit myself 
for better work than she has given me to do . . nursing 
fools' money? 

HUGH. [Responding at once to this vein.] Edward, we 
must turn this world upside down. It's her stupidity that 
drives me mad. We all want a lesson in values. We're 
never taught what is worth having and what isn't. Why 
should your real happiness be sacrificed to the sham 
happiness which people have invested in the firm ? 

EDWARD. I suppose their money means such happiness 
to them as they understand. 



ACT iv] THE VCYSEY INHERITANCE 91 

HUGH. Then we want another currency. We must 
learn to express ourselves in terms of vitality. There can 
be no other standard of worth in life, can there? I never 
believed that money was valuable. I remember once giv- 
ing a crossing sweeper a sovereign. The sovereign was 
nothing. But the sensation I gave him was an intrinsically 
valuable thing. 

He is fearfully pleased with his essay in philosophy. 

EDWARD. He could buy other sensations with the sov- 
ereign. 

HUGH. But none like the first. [Then the realities of 
life overwhelm him againJ] And yet . . we're slaves ! 
Beatrice won't let me go until we're each certain of two 
hundred a year. And she's quite right . . I should only 
get into debt. You know that two fifty a year of mine is 
a hundred and eighty now. 

EDWARD. [Mischievous.'] Why would you invest sen- 
sationally ? 

HUGH. [With great seriousness.'] I put money into 
things which I know ought to succeed . . 

The telephone rings, edward speaks through it. 

EDWARD. Certainly . . bring him in. [Then to his 
brother, zuho sits on the table idly disarranging every- 
thing.] You'll have to go now, Hugh. 

HUGH. [Shaking his head gloomily.] You're one of 
the few people I can talk to, Edward. 

EDWARD. I like listening. 

HUGH. [As much cheered as surprised.] Do you ! I 
suppose I talk a lot of rot . . but . . 

In comes old mr. george booth, older too in looks 
than he zvas eighteen months back. Very dandyishly 
dressed, he still seems by no means so happy as his 
clothes might be making him. 

MR. booth. 'Ullo, Hugh ! I thought I should find you, 
Edward. 



92 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act rv 

EDWARD. [Formally.'] Good morning, Mr. Booth. 
HUGH. [As he collects his hat, his coat, his various 
properties.'] Well . . Beatrice and I go down to Chisle- 
hurst to-morrow. I say . . d'you know that old Nursie 
is furious with you about something? 
EDWARD. [Shortly.] Yes, I know. Good-bye. 
HUGH. How are you? 

He launches this enquiry at mr. booth with great 
suddenness just as he leaves the room. The old 
gentleman jumps; then jumps again at the slam of 
the door. And then he frowns at edward in a 
frightened sort of way. 
EDWARD. Will you come here . . or will you sit by 
the fire? 

MR. BOOTH. This'll do. I shan't detain you long. 

He take the chair by the table and occupies the next 
minute or two carefully disposing of his hat and 
gloves. 
EDWARD. Are you feeling all right again? 
MR. BOOTH. A bit dyspeptic. How are you? 
EDWARD. Quite well, thanks. 

MR. BOOTH. I'm glad . . I'm glad. [He now proceeds 
to cough a little, hesitating painfully.] I'm afraid this 
isn't very pleasant business I've come upon. 

EDWARD. D'you want to go to Law with anyone? 
MR. BOOTH. No . . oh, no. I'm getting too old to 
quarrel. 

EDWARD. A pleasant symptom. 

MR. BOOTH. [With a -final effort.] I mean to withdraw 
my securities from the custody of your firm . . [and he 
adds apologetically] with the usual notice, of course. 

It would be difficult to describe what edward feels 
at this moment. Perhaps something of the shock 
that the relief of death may be as an end to pain so 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 93 

long endured that it Jigs been half forgotten. He 
answers very quietly, without a sign of emotion. 

EDWARD. Thank you . . May one ask why ? 

MR. BOOTH. [Relieved that the worst is over.'] Certain- 
ly . . certainly. My reason is straightforward and simple 
and well considered. I think you must know, Edward, I 
have never been able to feel that implicit confidence in 
your ability which I had in your father's. Well, it is 
hardly to be expected, is it? 

EDWARD. [With a grim smile.'] No. 

MR. BOOTH. I can say that without unduly depreciating 
you. Men like your father are few and far between. As 
far as I know, things proceed at this office as they have 
always done, but . . since his death I have not been happy 
about my affairs. 

EDWARD. [Speaking as it is his duty to.] I think you 
need be under no apprehension . . 

MR. BOOTH. I daresay not. But that isn't the point. 
Now, for the first time in my long life, I am worried about 
money affairs; and I don't like the feeling. The posses- 
sion of money has always been a pleasure to me . . and 
for what are perhaps my last years I don't wish that to be 
otherwise. You- must remember you have practically my 
entire property mireservedly in your control. 

EDWARD. Perhaps we can arrange to hand you over the 
reins* to an extent which will ease your mind, and at the 
same time not . . 

MR. BOOTH. I thought of that. Believe me, I have every 
wish not to slight unduly your father's son. I have not 
moved in the matter for eighteen months. I have not been 
able to make up my mind to. Really, one feels a little help- 
less . . and the transaction of business requires more en- 
ergy than . . But I saw my doctor yesterday, Edward, and 
he told me . . well, it was a warning. And so I felt it my 
duty at once to . . especially as I made up my mind to it 



94 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

some time ago. [He comes to the end of this havering at 
last, and adds.} In point of fact, Edward, more than a year 
before your father died I had quite decided that my affairs 
could never be with you as they were with him. 

EDWARD starts almost out of his chair, his face pale, 
his eyes black. 

EDWARD. Did h e know that ? 

MR. BOOTH. [Resenting this new attitude.'] I think I 
never said it in so many words. But he may easily have 
guessed. 

EDWARD. \_As he relaxes, and turns, almost shuddering, 
from the possibility of dreadful knowledge.'] No . . no . . 
he never guessed. [Then with a sudden fresh impulse.] I 
hope you won't do this, Mr. Booth. 

MR. BOOTH. I have quite made up my mind. 

EDWARD. You must let me persuade you 

MR. BOOTH. [Conciliatory.] I shall make a point of in- 
forming your family that you are in no way to blame in 
the matter. And in the event of any personal legal diffi- 
culties I shall always be delighted to come to you. My idea 
is for the future to employ merely a financial agent 

EDWARD. [Still quite unstrung really, and his nerves be- 
traying him.] If you had made up your mind before my 
father died to do this, you ought to have told h i m. 

MR. BOOTH. Please allow me to know my own business 
best. I did not choose to distress him by 

EDWARD. [Pulling himself together: speaking half to 
himself.] Well . . well . . this is one way out. And it's 
not my fault. 

MR. BOOTH. You're making a fearful fuss about a very 
simple matter, Edward. The loss of one client, however 
important he may be . . Why, this is one of the best fam- 
ily practices in London. I am surprised at your lack of 
dignity. 

EDWARD yields smilingly to this assertiveness. 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 95 

EDWARD. True . . I have no dignity. Will you walk 
off with your papers now? 

MR. BOOTH. What notice is usual? 

EDWARD. To a good solicitor, five minutes. Ten to a 
poor one. 

MR. BOOTH. You'll have to explain matters a bit to me. 
Now EDWARD settles to his desk again; really with a 
certain grim enjoyment of the prospect. 

EDWARD. Yes, I had better. Well, Mr. Booth, how 
much do you think you're worth ? 

MR. BOOTH. {^Easily.'] I couldn't say off hand. 

EDWARD. But you've a rough idea? 

MR. BOOTH. To be sure. 

EDWARD. You'll get not quite half that out of us. 

MR. BOOTH. {^Precisely.'] I think I said I had made up 
my mind to withdraw the whole amount. 

EDWARD. You should havc made up your mind sooner. 

MR. BOOTH. I don't in the least understand you, Edward. 

EDWARD. A great part of your capital doesn't exist. 

MR. BOOTH. \_lVith some irritation.} Nonsense! It must 
exist. [He scans edward's set face in vain.} You mean 
that it won't be prudent to realise ? You can hand over the 
securities. I don't want to reinvest simply because 

EDWARD. I can't hand over what I haven't got. 

This sentence falls on the old man's ears like a knell. 

MR. BOOTH. Is anything . . wrong? 

EDWARD. [Grim and patient.} How many more times 
am I to say that we have robbed you of nearly half your 
property ? 

MR. BOOTH. [His senses failing him.} Say that again. 

EDWARD. It's quite true. 

MR. BOOTH. My money . . gone? 

EDWARD. Yes. 

MR. BOOTH. [Clutching at a straw of anger.} You've 
been the thief . • you . . you . . ? 



96 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

EDWARD. I wouldn't tell you if I could help it . . my 
father. 

That actually calls the old man hack to something 
like dignity and self-possession. He thumps on 
Edward's table furiously, 

MR. BOOTH. I'll make you prove that. 

And now edward buries his face in his arms and 
just goes off into hysterics. 

EDWARD. Oh, youVe fired a mine ! 

MR. BOOTH. [Scolding him well.'] Slandering your dead 
father . . and lying to me, revenging yourself by frighten- 
ing me . . because I detest you. 

EDWARD. Why . , haven't I thanked you for putting an 
end to all my troubles? I do . . I promise you I do. 

MR. BOOTH. [Shouting , and his sudden courage failing 
as he shouts."] Prove this . . prove it to me ! I'm not to 
be frightened so easily. One can't lose half of all one has 
and then be told of it in two minutes . . sitting at a table. 
[His voice falls off to a piteous whimper.] 

EDWARD. [Quietly now, and kindly.] If my father had 
told you this in plain words you'd have believed him. 

MR. BOOTH. [Bowing his head.] Yes. 

EDWARD looks at the poor old thing with great pity. 

EDWARD. What on earth did you want to withdraw your 
account for? You need never have known . . you could 
have died happy. Settling with all those charities in your 
will would certainly have smashed us up. But proving 
your will is many years off yet, we'll hope. 

MR. BOOTH. [Pathetic and bewildered.] I don't under- 
stand. No, I don't understand . . because your father . . 
But I m u s t understand, Edward. 

EDWARD. Don't shock yourself trying to understand my 
father, for you never will. Pull yourself together, Mr. 
Booth. After all, this isn't a vital matter to you. It's 



ACT IV] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 97 

not even as if you had a family to consider . . like some 
of the others. 

MR. BOOTH. [Vaguely.'] What others? 

EDWARD. Don't imagine your money has been specially 
selected for pilfering. 

MR. BOOTH. [With solemn mcredulity.'] One has read 
of this sort of thing, but . . I thought people always got 
found out. 

EDWARD. [Brutally humorous.'] Well . . we are found 
out. You've found us out. 

MR. BOOTH. [Rising to the full appreciation of his 
wrongs.] Oh . . I've been foully cheated ! 

EDWARD. [Patiently.] I've told you so. 

MR. BOOTH. [His voice breaks, he appeals pitifully.] 
But by you, Edward . . say it's by you. 

EDWARD. [Unable to resist his quiet revenge.] I've not 

the ability or the personality for such work, Mr. Booth . . 

nothing but principles, which forbid me even to lie to you. 

The old gentleman draws a long breath, and then 

speaks with great awe, blending into grief, 

MR. BOOTH. I think your father is in Hell . . I'd have 
gone there myself to save him from it. I loved him very 
truly. How he could have had the heart! We were 
friends for nearly fifty years. Am I to think now he only 
cared for me to cheat me? 

EDWARD. [Venturing the comfort of an explanation.] 
No . . he didn't value money as you do. 

MR. BOOTH. [With sudden shrill logic] But he took it. 
What d'you mean by that ? 

EDWARD leans back in his chair and changes the 
tenor of their talk. 

EDWARD. Well, you're master of the situation now. 
What are you going to do? 

MR. BOOTH. To get my money back. 

EDWARD. No, that's gone. 



98 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

MR. BOOTH. Then give me what's left, and 

EDWARD. Are you going to prosecute? 

MR. BOOTH. [Shifting uneasily in his chair.] Oh, dear 
. . is that necessary? Can't somebody else do that? I 
thought the Law 

EDWARD. You need not prosecute, you know. 

MR. BOOTH. What'll happen if I don't? 

EDWARD. What do you suppose I'm doing here now? 

MR. BOOTH. [As if he were being asked a riddle.] I 
don't know. 

EDWARD. [Earnestly.'] I'm trying to straighten things 
a little. I'm trying to undo what my father did . . to do 
again what he undid. It's a poor, dull sort of work now . . 
throwing penny after penny, hardly earned, into the pit of 
our deficit. But I've been doing that for what it's worth, 
in the time that was left to me . . till this should happen. 
I never thought you'd bring it to pass. I can continue to 
do that, if you choose . . until the next smash comes. I'm 
pleased to call this my duty. [He searches mr. booth's 
face, and finds there only disbelief and fear. He bursts 
out.] Oh, why won't you believe me? It can't hurt you 
to beheve it. 

MR. booth. You must admit, Edward, it isn't easy to 
believe anything in this office . . just for the moment. 

EDWARD. [Bowing to the extreme reasonableness of 
this.] I suppose not. I can prove it to you. I'll take you 
through the books . . you won't understand them . . but 
I could prove it. 

MR. booth. I think I'd rather not. D'you think I ought 
to hold any further communication with you at all? [And 
at this he takes his hat.] 

EDWARD. [IVith a little explosion of contemptuous an- 
ger.] Certainly not. Prosecute . . prosecute ! 

MR. booth. [With dignity.] Don't lose your temper. 
You know it's my place to be angry with you. 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 99 

EDWARD. I beg your pardon. [Then he is elaborately 
explanatory.'] I shall be grateful if you'll prosecute. 

MR. BOOTH. [More pusdcd than ever.'] There's some- 
thing in this which I don't understand. 

EDWARD. [With deliberate unconcern.] Think it over. 

MR. BOOTH. [Hesitating, fidgetting.] But surely I 
oughtn't to have to make up my mind ! There must be a 
right or wrong thing to do. Edward, can't you tell me? 

EDWARD. I'm prejudiced. 

MR. BOOTH. [Angrily.] What do you mean by placing 
me in a dilemma? I believe you're simply trying to prac- 
tise upon my goodness of heart. Certainly I ought to pros- 
ecute at once . . Oughtn't I? [Then at the nadir of help- 
lessness.] Can't I consult another solicitor? 

EDWARD. [His chin in the air.] Write to the Times 
about it ! 

MR. BOOTH. [Shocked and grieved at his attitude.] Ed- 
ward, how can you be so cool and heartless? 

EDWARD. [Changing his tone.] D'you think I shan't be 
glad to sleep at nights? 

MR. BOOTH. Perhaps you'll be put in prison? 

EDWARD. I a m in prison . . a less pleasant one than 
Wormwood Scrubbs. But we're all prisoners, Mr. Booth. 

MR. BOOTH. [Wagging his head.] Yes, this is what 
comes of your philosophy. Why aren't you on your knees? 

EDWARD. To you? 

This zvas not what mr. booth meant, but as he gets 
up from his chair he feels all but mighty. 
MR. booth. And why should you expect me to shrink 
from vindicating the law? 

EDWARD. [Shortly.] I don't. I've explained you'll be 
doing me a kindness. When I'm wanted you'll find me 
here at my desk. [Then as an afterthought.] If you take 
long to decide . . don't alter your behaviour to my family 



100 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act iv 

in the meantime. They know the main points of the busi- 
ness, and 

MR. BOOTH. [Knocked right off his balance.'] Do they ? 
Good God! . . I'm invited to dinner the day after to- 
morrow . . that's Christmas Eve. The hypocrites ! 

EDWARD. [Unmoved.'] I shall be there . . that will 
have given you two days. Will you tell me then? 

MR. BOOTH. [Protesting violently.] I can't go to dinner 
. . I can't eat with them ! I must be ill ! 

EDWARD. [With a half smile.] I remember I went tc 
dinner at Chislehurst to tell my father of my decision. 

MR. BOOTH. [Testily.] What decision? 

EDWARD. To remain in the firm when I first knew of 
the difficulties. 

MR. BOOTH. [Interested.] Was I present? 

EDWARD. I daresay. 

MR. BOOTH stands there, hat, stick and gloves in 
hand, shaken by his experience, helpless, at his wits* 
end. He falls into a sort of fretful reverie, speak- 
ing half to himself, but yet as if he hoped that ed- 
WARD, who is wrapped in his own thoughts, would 
have the decency to answer, or at least listen, to 
what he is saying, 

MR. BOOTH. Yes, how often I dined with him ! Oh, it 
was monstrous ! [His eyes fall on the clock.] It's nearly 
lunch time now. Do you know, I still can hardly believe 
all this? I wish I hadn't found it out. If he hadn't died I 
should never have found it out. I hate to have to be vin- 
dictive . . it's not my nature. Indeed, I'm sure I'm more 
grieved than angry. But it isn't as if it were a small sum. 
And I don't see that one is called upon to forgive crimes 
. . or why does the Law exist? I feel that this will go 
near to killing me. I'm too old to have such troubles . . 
it isn't right. And now if I have to prosecute 

EDWARD. [At last throwing in a word.] You need not. 



ACT iv] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 101 

MR. BOOTH. ^Thankful for the provocation.'] Don't you 
attempt to influence me, sir ! 
He turns to go. 
EDWARD. With the money you have left . . . 

EDWARD follows him politely, mr. booth fiijigs the 
door open. 
MR. BOOTH. Make out a cheque for that at once and 
send it me. 

EDWARD. You could . . . 

MR. BOOTH. [Clapping his hat on, stamping his stick.} 
I shall do the right thing, sir, never fear. 

So he marches off in fine style, having, he thinks, 
had the last word and all. But edward, closing the 
door after him, mutters . . 
EDWARD. . . Save your soul ! . . I'm afraid I was going 
to say. 



10^ THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 



THE FIFTH ACT 

Naturally, it is the dining-room — consecrated as it is to the 
distinguishing orgie of the season — which bears the 
brunt of zvhat an English household knows as 
Christmas decorations. They consist chiefly of the 
branches of holly (that unyielding tree), stuck cock- 
eyed behind the top edges of the pictures. The one 
picture conspicuously not decorated is that which 
now hangs over the fireplace, a portrait of mr. voy- 
SEY, with its new gilt frame and its brass plate 
marking it also as a presentation, honor, hastily, and 
at some hodily peril, pulled down the large bunch of 
mistletoe which a callous housemaid had suspended 
above it, in time to obviate the shock to family feel- 
ings which such impropriety would cause. Otherwise 
the only difference between the dining-room' s ap- 
pearance at half past nine on Christmas eve and on 
any other evening in the year is that little piles of 
queer-shaped envelopes seem to be lying about, zvhile 
there is quite a lot of tissue paper and string to he 
seen peeping from odd corners. The electric light 
is reduced to one btdb, but when the maid opens the 
door, showing in mr. george booth, she szuitches on 
the rest. 
PHCEBE. This room is empty, sir. I'll tell Mr. Edward. 
She leaves him to fidget towards the fireplace and 
back, not removing his comforter or Jiis coat, scarce- 
ly turning down the collar, screwing his cap in his 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE lOS 

hands. In a very short time edward comes in, shut- 
ting the door, and taking stock of the visitor before 
he speaks. 

EDWARD. Well ? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. IFecbly.^ I liopc my excuse for not 
coming to dinner was acceptable. I did have . . I have a 
very bad headache. 

EDWARD. I daresay they believed it. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I have come immediately to tell you 
of my decision . . perhaps this trouble will then be a little 
more off my mind. 

EDWARD. What is it ? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I couldu't think the matter out alone. 
I went this afternoon to talk it all over with my old friend 
Colpiis. [At this nczvs edward's eyebrows contract and 
then rise.'] What a terrible shock to him ! 

EDWARD. Oh, nearly three of his four thousand pounds 
are quite safe. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. That you and your father . . you, 
whom he baptised . . should have robbed him ! I never 
saw a man so utterly prostrate with grief. That it should 
have been your father ! And his poor wife ! . . though 
she never got on with your father. 

EDWARD. \lVith cheerful irony.'] Oh, Mrs. Colpus 
knows, too, does she? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Of coursc he told Mrs. Colpus. This 
is an unfortunate time for the storm to break on him. 
What with Christmas Day and Sunday following so close, 
they're as busy as can be. He has resolved that during 
this season of peace and goodwill he must put the matter 
from him if he can. But once Christmas is over . . ! 
[He envisages the Christian old Vicar giving edward a 
hell of a time then.] 

EDWARD. [Coolly.] So I concludc you mean to prose- 
cute. For if you don't, you've given the Colpuses a lot of 



104 THE VGYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

unnecessary pain . . and inflicted a certain amount of loss 
by telling them. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [Naivcly.'] I uevcr thought of that. 
No, Edward, I have decided not to prosecute. 
EDWARD hides his face for a moment. 

EDWARD. And I've been hoping to escape ! Well . . it 
can't be helped. [And he sets his teeth.^ 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. [With toiichifig solemnity.'] I think 
I could not bear to see the family I have loved brought 
to such disgrace. 

EDWARD. So you'll compouud my felony ? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. \^A little nevvous.'] That's only your 
joke ! 

EDV/ARD. You'll come to no harm. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. On the Contrary. And I want to 
ask your pardon, Edward, for some of the hard thoughts I 
have had of you. I consider this effort of yours to restore 
to the firm the credit which your father lost a very strik- 
ing one. What improvements have you effected so far? 

EDWARD. {Wondering what is coming now.] I took the 
money that my father left . . 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. And I suppose you take the ordinary 
profits of the firm? 

EDWARD. Yes. It costs me very little to live. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Do you rcstorc to the clients all 
round, in proportion to the amount they have lost? 

EDWARD. {Cautiously.] That's the law. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. D'you think that's quite fair? 

EDWARD. No, I don't. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No, I considcr the treachery to have 
been blacker in some cases than in others. 

EDWARD. {His face brightening a little.] Are you going 
to help me in this work of mine? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Suiely, by consenting not to prose- 
cute I am doing so. 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 105 

EDWARD. Will you do no more ? 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Well, as far as my own money is 
concerned, this is my proposal. [He coughs, and proceeds 
•very formally.^ Considering how absolutely I trusted your 
father, and believed in him, I think you should at once 
return me the balance of my capital that there is left. 

EDWARD. [Cold again.'] That is being done. 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Good. That you should continue to 
pay me a fair interest upon the rest of that capital, which 
ought to exist and does not. And that you should, year by 
year, pay me back by degrees out of the earnings of the 
firm as much of that capital as you can afford. We will 
agree upon the sum . . say a thousand a year. I doubt if 
you can ever restore me all that I have lost, but do your 
best, and I shan't complain. There . . I think that is fair 
deaHng ! 

EDWARD does not take his eyes off mr. booth until 
the whole meaning of this proposition has settled in 
his brain. Then, without warning, he goes off into 
peals of laughter, much to the alarm of mr. booth, 
who has never thought him over-sane. 

EDWARD. How funny ! How very funny ! 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, don't laugh. 

EDWARD. I never heard anything quite so funny ! 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Edward, stop laughing! 

EDWARD. What will Colpus . . what will all the other 
Christian gentlemen demand? Pounds of flesh! Pounds 
of flesh ! 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Dou't be hysterical. I demand what 
is mine . . in such quantities as you can afford. 

Edward's laughter gives way to the deepest anger 
of which he is capable. 

EDWARD. I'm giving my soul and body to restoring you 
and the rest of you to your precious money bags . . and 
you'll wring me dry. Won't you? Won't you? 



106 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Now be reasonable. Argue the point 
quietly. 
EDWARD. Go to the devil, sir ! 

And with that he turns away from the Hahhergasted 
old gentleman. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Don't be rude. 
EDWARD. [His anger vanishing.'] I beg your pardon. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. You're excited. Take time to think 
of it. I'm reasonable. 

EDWARD. [^His sense of humour returning.'] Most ! 
Most ! [There is a knock at the door.] Come in ! Come in ! 
HONOR intrudes an apologetic head. 
HONOR. Am I interrupting business? I'm so sorry. 
EDWARD. [Crowing in a mirthless enjoyment of his joke.] 
No ! Business is over . . quite over. Come in, Honor. 

HONOR puts on the table a market basket bulging 
with little paper parcels, and, oblivious to mr. 
booth's distracted face, tries to fix his attention. 
HONOR. I thought, dear Mr. Booth, perhaps you 
wouldn't mind carrying round this basket of things your- 
self. It's so very damp underfoot that I don't want to send 
one of the maids out to-night if I can possibly avoid it . . 
and if one doesn't get Christmas presents the very first 
thing on Christmas morning quite half the pleasure in 
them is lost, don't you think? 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Yes . . yes. 

HONOR. [Fishing out the parcels one by one.] This is a 
bell for Mrs. Williams . . something she said she wanted 
SO that you can ring that for her, which saves the maids. 
Cap and apron for Alary. Cap and apron for Ellen. Shawl 
for Davis, when she goes out to the larder. All useful 
presents. And that's something for you, but you're not to 
look at it till the morning. 

Having shaken each of these at the old gentleman, 
she proceeds to re-pack them. He is now trembling 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 107 

with anxiety to escape before any more of the fam- 
ily find him there. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you . . thank you ! I hope 
my lot has arrived. I left instructions . . 

HONOR. Quite safely . . and I have hidden them. Pres- 
ents are put on the breakfast table to-morrow. 

EDWARD. [With an inconsequence that still further 
alarms mr. booth.] When we were all children our Christ- 
mas breakfast was mostly made off chocolates. 

Before the basket is packed, mrs. voysey sails slowly 
into the room, as smiling and as deaf as ever. mr. 
booth does his best not to scowl at her. 
MRS. VOYSEY. Are you feeling better, George Booth? 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. No. [Then he elevates his voice, 
with a show of politeness.l No, thank you . . I can't say 
I am. 

MRS. VOYSEY. You don't look better. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I Still havc my headache. {With a 
distracted shout.] Headache. 

MRS. VOYSEY. Bilious, perhaps ! I quite understand you 
didn't care to dine. But why not have taken your coat 
off? How foolish, in this warm room! 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. Thank you. I'm just going. 

He seises the market basket. At that moment mrs. 
HUGH appears. 
BEATRICE. Your shawl, mother. [And she clasps it 

round mrs. voysey's shoulders.'] 
MRS. VOYSEY. Thank you, Beatrice. I thought I had it 
on. {Then to mr. booth, who is now entangled in his 
comforter.] A merry Christmas to you. 
BEATRICE. Good evening, Mr. Booth. 
MR. GEORGE BOOTH. I beg your pardon. Good evening, 
Mrs. Hugh. 

HONOR. {With sudden inspiration, to the company in 



108 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

general.'] Why shouldn't I write in here . . now the 
table's cleared ! 

MR. GEORGE BOOTH. {^Stemly, HOW he is safe by the 
door.] Will you see me out, Edward? 

EDWARD. Yes. 

He follows the old man and his basket, leaving the 
others to distribute themselves about the room. It 
is a custom of the female members of the voysey 
family, especially about Christmas time, to return to 
the dining-room, when the table has been cleared, 
and occupy themselves in various ways which re- 
quire space and untidiness. Sometimes, as the eve- 
ning wears on, they partake of cocoa, sometimes they 
abstain. Beatrice has a little work-basket, contain- 
ing a buttonless glove and such things, which she is 
rectifying, honor's zuriting is done with the aid of 
an enormous blotting book, which bulges with ap- 
parently a year's correspondence. She sheds its con- 
tents upon the end of the dining table and spraads 
them abroad, mrs. voysey settles to the fire, opens 
the Nineteenth Century, and is instantly absorbed 
in it. 

BEATRICE. Where's Emily? 

honor. \_Mysteriously.'] Well, Beatrice, she's in the 
library, talking to Booth. 

BEATRICE. Talking to her husband ; good Heavens ! I 
know she has taken my scissors. 

HONOR. I think she's telling him about you. 

BEATRICE. What about me? 

HONOR. You and Hugh. 

BEATRICE. [With a little movement of annoyance.] I 
suppose this is Hugh's fault. It was carefully arranged no 
one was to be told till after Christmas. 

HONOR. Emily told me . . and Edward knows . . and 
Mother knows . . 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 109 

BEATRICE. I warned Mother a year ago. 

HONOR. Everyone seems to know but Booth . . so I 
thought he'd better be told. I suggested one night so that 
he might have time to think over it . . but Emily said 
that'd wake Alfred. Besides, she's nearly always asleep 
herself when he comes to bed. 

BEATRICE. Why do they still have that baby in their 
room? 

HONOR. Emily considers it her duty. 

Af this moment emily comes in, looking rather 
trodden upon, honor concludes in the most audible 
of whispers . . 

HONOR. Don't say anything . . it's my fault. 

BEATRICE. [^Fixing her with a severe forefinger.'] Emily 
. . have you taken my best scissors? 

EMILY. [Timidly.'] No, Beatrice. 

HONOR. [Who is diving into the recesses of the blotting 
book.] Oh, here they are ! I must have taken them. I do 
apologise ! 

EMILY. [More timidly still.] I'm afraid Booth's rather 
cross . . he's gone to look for Hugh. 

BEATRICE. [With a shake of her head.] Honor . . I've 
a good mind to make you sew on these buttons for me. 

In conies the Major, strepitant. He takes, so to 
speak, just time enough to train himself on Beatrice, 
and then fires. 

BOOTH. Beatrice, what on earth is this Emily has been 
telling me? 

BEATRICE. [With elaborate calm.] Emily, what have 
you been telling Booth? 

BOOTH. Please . . please do not prevaricate. Where is 
Hugh? 

MRS. VOYSEY. [Looking over her spectacles.] What did 
you say. Booth? 

BOOTH. I want Hugh, Mother, 



110 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

MRS. VOYSEY. I thought you were playing billiards to- 
gether. 

EDWARD strolls back from despatching mr. booth, 
his face thoughtful. 

BOOTH. [^Insistently.'] Edward, where is Hugh? 

EDWARD. [With complete indifference.'] I don't know. 

BOOTH. [In trumpet tones.] Honor, will you oblige me 
by finding Hugh, and saying I wish to speak to him, here, 
immediately ? 

HONOR, who has leapt at the sound of her name, 
Hies from the room without a word. 

BEATRICE. I know quitc well what you want to talk 
about. Booth. Discuss the matter by all means, if it 
amuses you . . but don't shout. 

BOOTH. I use the voice Nature has gifted me with, 
Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. [As slic scarchcs for a glove button.] Cer- 
tainly Nature did let herself go over your lungs. 

BOOTH. [Glaring round zuith indignation.] This is a 
family matter, otherwise I should not feel it my duty to 
interfere . . as I do. Any member of the family has a 
right to express an opinion. I want Mother's. Mother, 
what do you think? 

MRS. VOYSEY. [Amicobly.] What about? 

BOOTH. Hugh and Beatrice separating. 

MRS. VOYSEY. They haven't separated. 

BOOTH. But they mean to. 

MRS. VOYSEY. Fiddlc-de-dce ! 

BOOTH. I quite agree with you. 

BFATRTCK. [With a charming smile.] This reasoning 
would convert a stone. 

BOOTH. Why have I not been told? 

BEATRICE. You have just been told. 

BOOTH. [Thunderously.] Before. 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 111 

BEATRICE. The truth is, dear Booth, we're all so afraid 
of you. 

BOOTH. [A little mollified.'] Ha . . I should be glad to 
think that. 

BEATRICE. ^Sweetly.'] Don't you ? 
BOOTH, llntensely serious.] Beatrice, your callousness 
shocks me ! That you can dream of deserting Hugh . . a 
man of all others who requires constant care and attention. 
BEATRICE. May I remark that the separation is as much 
Hugh's wish as mine? 
BOOTH. I don't believe that. 
BEATRICE. [Her eyebrows up.] Really ! 
BOOTH. I don't imply that you're lying. But you must 
know that it's Hugh's nature to wish to do anything that 
he thinks anybody wishes him to do. All my life I've had 
to stand up for him . . and, by Jove, I'll continue to do so. 
EDWARD. [From the depths of his armchair.] If you'd 

taught him to stand up for himself 

The door is Hung almost off its hinges by hugh, 
who then stands stamping, and pale green with rage. 
HUGH. Look here, Booth . . I will not have you inter- 
fering with my private affairs. Is one never to be free 
from your bullying? 
BOOTH. You ought to be grateful. 
HUGH. Well, I'm not. 
BOOTH. This is a family affair. 
HUGH. It is not ! 

BOOTH. [At the top of his voice.] If all you can do is 
to contradict me, you'd better listen to what I've got to 
say . . quietly. 

HUGH, quite shouted down, flings himself petulantly 
into a chair. A hush falls. 
EMILY. [In a still small voice.] Would you like me to 
go, Booth? 
BOOTH. [Severely,] No, Emily. Unless anything has 



112 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

been going on which cannot be discussed before you . . 
[Then more severely still.'] And I hope that is not so. 

HUGH. [^Muttering rebellion sly.] Oh, you have the 
mind of a . . cheap schoolmaster ! 

BOOTH. Why do you wish to separate? 

HUGH. What's the use of teUing you? You won't un- 
derstand. 

BEATRICE. [Who sews ofi, undisturbed.'] We don't get 
on well together. 

BOOTH. [Amasedly.] Is that all? 

HUGH. [Snapping at him.] Yes, that's all. Can you 
find a better reason ? 

BOOTH. [With brotherly contempt.] I have given up 
expecting common sense from you. But Beatrice — ! [His 
tone implores her to be reasonable.] 

BEATRICE. It doesn't seem to me any sort of sense that 
people should live together for purposes of mutual irri- 
tation. 

BOOTH. [Protesting.] My dear girl ! . . that sounds 
like a quotation from your last book. 

BEATRICE. It isn't. I do think. Booth, you might read 
that book . . for the honour of the Family. 

BOOTH. [Successfully side-tracked . . ] I have bought 
it, Beatrice, and 

BEATRICE. That's the principal thing, of course 

BOOTH. [ . . and discovering it.] But do let us keep to 
the subject. 

BEATRICE. [With flattering sincerity.] Certainly, Booth. 
And there is hardly any subject that I wouldn't ask your 
advice about. But upon this . . do let me know better. 
Hugh and I will be happier apart. 

BOOTH. [Obstinately.] Why? 

BEATRICE. [With resolute patience, having vented a lit- 
tle sigh.] Hugh finds that my opinions distress him. And 
I have at last lost patience with Hugh. 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 113 

MRS. VOYSEY. [Who Jias been trying to follow this 
through her spectacles.^ What does Beatrice say ? 

BOOTH. [Translating into a loud sing-song.] That she 
wishes to leave her husband because she has lost patience ! 

MRS. VOYSEY. [With Considerable acrimony.'] Then you 
must be a very ill-tempered woman. Hugh has a sweet 
nature. 

HUGH. [Shouting self-consciously.] Nonsense, mother ! 

BEATRICE. [Shouting good-humouredly.] I quite agree 
with you, mother. [She continues to her husband in an 
even just tone.] You have a sweet nature, Hugh, and it is 
most difficult to get angry with you. I have been seven 
years working up to it But now that I am angry, I shall 
never get pleased again. 

The Major returns to his subject, refreshed by a 
moment's repose. 

BOOTH. How has he failed in his duty? Tell us. I'm 
not bigoted in his favour. I know your faults, Hugh. 

He wags his head at hugh, who writhes with irri- 
tation. 

HUGH. Why can't you leave them alone . . leave us 
alone? 

BEATRICE. I'd state my case against Hugh, if I thought 
he'd retaliate. 

HUGH. [Desperately rounding on his brother.] If I tell 
you, you won't understand. You understand nothing! 
Beatrice is angry with me because I won't prostitute my 
art to make money. 

BOOTH. [Glancing at his wife.'] Please don't use meta- 
phors of that sort. 

BEATRICE. [Reasonably.] Yes, I think Hugh ought to 
earn more money. 

BOOTH. [Quite pleased to be getting along at last.] 
Well, why doesn't he? 

HUGH. I don't want money. 



114 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

BOOTH. You can't say you don't want money any more 
than you can say you don't want bread. 

BEATRICE. [As slie brcaks off her cotton.l It's when 
one has known what it is to be a Httle short of both . . 

Now the Major spreads himself, and begins to he 
very wise, while hugh, to whom this is more intol- 
erable than all, can only clutch his hair. 
BOOTH. You know I never considered Art a very good 
profession for you, Hugh. And you won't even stick to 
one department of it. It's a profession that gets people 
into very bad habits, I consider. Couldn't you take up 
something else? You could still do those wood-cuts in 
your spare time to amuse yourself. 

HUGH. [Commenting on this with two deliberate shouts 
of simulated mirth.'] Ha ! Ha ! 

BOOTH. [Sublimely superior.'] Well, it wouldn't much 
matter if you didn't do them at all! 

BEATRICE. [Subtly.] Booth, there speaks the true critic. 
BOOTH. [Deprecating any title to omniscience.] Well, 

I don't pretend to know much about Art, but 

HUGH. It would matter to me. There speaks the artist. 

BEATRICE. The arrogance of the artist. 

HUGH. We have a right to be arrogant. 

BEATRICE. Good workmen are humble. 

HUGH. And look to their wages. 

BEATRICE. Well, I'm only a workman. 

With that she breaks the contact of this quiet, dead- 
ly, hopeless little quarrel by turning her head away. 
The Major, who has given it most friendly atten- 
tion, comments . , 
BOOTH. Of course ! Quite so ! I'm sure all that is a 
very interesting difference of opinion. 

MRS. VOYSEY Icavcs her armchair for her favourite 
station at the dining table. 
MRS. VOYSEY. Booth is the only one of you that I can 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 115 

hear at all distinctly. But if you two foolish young people 
think you want to separate . . try it. You'll soon come 
back to each other and be glad to. People can't fight 
against Nature for long. And marriage is a natural state 
. . once you're married. 

BOOTH. [With intense approval.'] Quite right, Mother. 

MRS. VOYSEY. I know. 

She resumes the Nineteenth Century. The Major, 
to the despair of everybody, makes yet another start, 
trying oratory this time. 

BOOTH. My own opinion is, Beatrice and Hugh, that 
you don't realise the meaning of the word marriage. I 
don't call myself a religious man . . but dash it all, you 
were married in church ! . . And you then entered upon 
an awful compact ! . . Surely . . as a woman, Beatrice . . 
the religious point of it ought to appeal to you. Good 
Lord, suppose everybody were to carry on like this ! And 
have you considered, Beatrice, that . . whether you're 
right or whether you're wrong . . if you desert Hugh, you 
cut yourself off from the Family? 

BEATRICE. [With the sweetest of smiles.] That will 
distress me terribly. 

BOOTH. [Not doubting her for a moment.'] Of course. 
HUGH flings up his head and finds relief at last in 
many words. 

HUGH. I wish to Heaven I'd ever been able to cut my- 
self off from the family ! Look at Trenchard. 

BOOTH. [Gobbling a little at this unexpected attack.] I 
do not forgive Trenchard for quarreling with and desert- 
ing our Father. 

HUGH. Trenchard quarreled because that was his only 
way of escape. 

BOOTH. Escape from what? 

HUGH. From tyranny ! . . from hypocrisy ! . , from 
boredom! . . from his Happy EngHsh Home! 



116 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

BEATRICE. [Kindly.li Hugh . . Hugh . . It's no use. 

BOOTH. {^Attempting sarcasm.'] Speak so that Mother 
can hear you ! 

But HUGH isn't to he stopped nozv. 

HUGH. Why are we all dull, cubbish, uneducated, hope- 
lessly middle-class . . that is, hopelessly out of date? 

BOOTH. [Taking this as very personal.] Cubbish ! 

HUGH. . . Because it's the middle-class ideal that you 
should respect your parents . . live with them . . think 
with them . . grow like them. Natural affection and grat- 
itude ! That's what's expected, isn't it? 

BOOTH. {Not to he ohlite rated.] Certainly. 

HUGH. Keep your children ignorant of all that you 
don't know, penniless except for your good pleasure, de- 
pendent on you for permission to breathe freely . . and be 
sure that their gratitude will be most disinterested, and 
affection very natural. If your father's a drunkard, or 
poor, then perhaps you get free, and can form an opinion 
or two of your own . . and can love him or hate him as 
he deserves. But our Father and Mother were models. 
They did their duty by us . . and taught us ours. Trench- 
ard escaped, as I say. You took to the Army . . so of 
course you've never discovered how behind the times you 
are. [The Major is stupent.] I tried to express myself in 
art . . and found there was nothing to express . . I'd 
been so well brought up. D'you blame me if I wander 
about in search of a soul of some sort? And Honor 

BOOTH. [Disputing savagely.] Honor is very happy at 
home. Everyone loves her. 

HUGH. [With fierce sarcasm.] Yes . . what do we call 
her? Mother's right hand! I wonder they bothered to 
give her a name. By the time little Ethel came they were 
tired of training children. . [His voice loses its sting; he 
doesn't complete this sentence.] 

BEATRICE. Poor little Ethel . . 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 111' 

BOOTH. Poor Ethel ! 

They speak as one speaks of the dead, and so the 
wrangling stops. Then edward interposes quietly. 

EDWARD. Yes, Hugh, if we'd been poor . . 

HUGH. I haven't spoken of your fate, Edward, That's 
too shameful. 

EDWARD. . . We should at least have learnt how to 
spend money. 

BOOTH. [Pathetically,'] Really, Edward, need you at- 
tack me ? 

HUGH. Well . . you're so proud of representing the 
family ! 

BOOTH. And may I ask what we're discussing now? 

BEATRICE. Yes, Edward, I knew how to get the great- 
est possible happiness out of a five-pound note years be- 
fore I had one. 

EDWARD. The first man who saved a sovereign has 
made a prisoner of me. 

BOOTH. [Determined to capture the conversation again."} 
Has made a . . ? 

EDWARD. Will make . . if you understand that better. 
Booth. 

BOOTH. I don't understand it at all. [They leave him 
the field.'] And why, for no earthly reason, we must sud- 
denly open up a — a street, which is very painful . , I really 
cannot see. One never knows who may be listening. [He 
glances most uneasily towards the door and drops his 
voice.] In that unhappy business, Edward, you very wise- 
ly did what we all felt to be your duty. I'm sure we all 
hope you have succeeded in your endeavours. But the 
least we can do now in respect to our poor Father's mem- 
ory is to bury the matter in — in decent oblivion. And 
please . . please don't talk of prison. I thought you'd 
given up that idea long ago. [Having dismissed that sub- 
ject unopposed, he takes a long breath.] Now we will re- 



118 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

turn to the original subject of discussion. Hugh, this 

question of a separation 

Past all patience, hugh jumps up and flings his 
chair back to its place. 

HUGH. Beatrice and I mean to separate. And nothing 
you may say will prevent us. The only difficulty in the 
way is money. Can we command enough to live apart 
comfortably ? 

BOOTH. Well ? 

HUGH. Well . . we can't. 

BOOTH. Well? 

HUGH. So we can't separate. 

BOOTH. [Speaking with bewilderment.'] Then what in 
Heaven's name have we been discussing it for? 

HUGH. I haven't discussed it ! I don't want to discuss 
it ! Why can't you mind your own business ? Now I'll go 
back to the billiard room and my book. 

He is gone before the poor Major can recover his 
lost breath. 

BOOTH. \_As he does recover it.'} I am not an impatient 
man . . but really . . \_And then words fail him.} 

BEATRICE. [Commenting calmly.} Of course, Hugh was 
a spoilt child. They grow to hate their parents sooner 
than others. He still cries for what he wants. That 
makes him a wearisome companion. 

BOOTH. [Very sulky now.} You married him with your 
eyes open, I suppose? 

BEATRICE. How f cw womcn marry with their eyes open ! 

BOOTH. You have never made the best of Hugh. 

BEATRICE. I have spared him that indignity. 

BOOTH. [Vindictively.} I am very glad that you can't 
separate. 

BEATRICE. As soon as I'm reasonably sure of earning 
an income I shall walk off from him. 
The Major revives. 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 119 

BOOTH. You will do nothing of the sort, Beatrice. 
BEATRICE. [Unruffled.'] How will you stop me, Booth? 
BOOTH. I shall tell Hugh he must command you to stay. 
BEATRICE. [With a little smile.] Now that might make 
a difference. It was one of the illusions of my girlhood 
that I should love a man who would master me. 
BOOTH. Hugh must assert himself. 

He begins to walk about, giving some indication of 
how it should be done. Beatrice's smile has van- 
ished. 
BEATRICE. Don't think I've enjoyed taking the lead in 
everything throughout my married life. But someone had 
to plan and scheme and be foreseeing . . we weren't spar- 
rows or lilies of the field . . someone had to get up and do 
something. IShe becomes conscious of his strutting, and 
smiles rather mischievously.] Ah . . if I'd married you, 
Booth ! 

booth's face grows beatific. 
BOOTH. Well, I must own to thinking that I am a mas- 
terful man . . that is the duty of every man to be so. 
[He adds forgivingly.] Poor old Hugh ! 

BEATRICE. [Unable to resist temptation.] If I'd tried to 
leave you. Booth, you'd have whipped me . . wouldn't 
you? 

BOOTH. [Ecstatically complacent.] Ha . . well . . ! 
BEATRICE. Do say yes. Think how it'll frighten Emily. 
The Major strokes his moustache, and is most 
friendly. 
BOOTH. Hugh's been a worry to me all my life. And 
now as Head of the Family . . Well, I suppose I'd better 
go and give the dear old chap another talking to. I quite 
see your point of view, Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. Why disturb him at his book? 

MAJOR BOOTH Icovcs them, squaring his shoulders as 
becomes a lord of creation. The two sisters-in-law 



120 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

go on with their work silently for a moment; then 

BEATRICE adds . . 

BEATRICE. Do you find Booth difficult to manage, Emily ? 

EMILY. [Putting down her knitting to consider the mat- 

ter.] No. It's best to allow him to talk himself out. 

When he's done that he'll often come to me for advice. I 

let him get his own way as much as possible . . or think 

he's getting it. Otherwise he becomes so depressed. 

BEATRICE. [Quietly amused.] Edward shouldn't hear 
this. What has he to do with women's secrets? 
EDWARD. I won't tell . . and I'm a bachelor. 
EMILY. [Solemnly, as she takes up her knitting again.'] 
Do you really mean to leave Hugh ? 

BEATRICE. [Slightly impatient.] Emily, I've said so. 
They are joined by alice maitland^ who comes in 
gaily. 
ALICE. What's Booth shouting about in the billiard 
room? 

EMILY, [Pained.] On Christmas Eve, too ! 
BEATRICE. Don't you take any interest in my matri- 
monial affairs? 

MRS. VOYSEY shuts Up the Nineteenth Century and 
removes her spectacles. 
MRS. VOYSEY. That's a very interesting article. The 
Chinese Empire must be in a shocking state! Is it ten 
o'clock yet? 
EDWARD. Past. 

MRS. VOYSEY. [As EDWARD is behind her.] Can anyone 
see the clock? 
ALICE. It's past ten, Auntie. 
MRS. VOYSEY. Then I think I'll go to my room. 
EMILY. Shall I come and look after you. Mother? 
MRS. VOYSEY. If you'd find Honor for me, Emily. 

EMILY goes in search of the harmless, necessary 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 121 

HONOR, and mrs. voysey begins her nightly chant 
of departure. 

MRS. VOYSEY. Good-night, Alice. Good-night, Edward. 

EDWARD. Good-night, Mother. 

MRS. VOYSEY. [With sudden severity.'] I'm not pleased 
with you, Beatrice. 

BEATRICE. I'm sorry. Mother. 

But, without waiting to be answered, the old lady 
has sailed out of the room. Beatrice, edward and 
ALICE are attuned to each other enough to be able 
to talk with ease. 

BEATRICE. Hugh is right about his family. It'll never 
make any new life for itself. 

EDWARD. There are Booth's children. 

BEATRICE. Poor little devils ! 

ALICE. [Judicially.'] Emily is an excellent mother. 

BEATRICE. Yes . . they'll grow up good men and women. 
And one will go into the Army and one into the Navy and 
one into the Church . . and perhaps one to the Devil and 
the Colonies. They'll serve their country, and govern it, 
and help to keep it like themselves . . dull and respectable 
. . hopelessly middle-class. [She puts down her work now 
and elevates an oratorical fist.] Genius and Poverty may 
exist in England, if they'll hide their heads. For show 
days we've our aristocracy. But never let us forget, gen- 
tlemen, that it is the plain, solid middle-class man who has 
made us . . what we are. 

EDWARD. [In sympathetic derision.] Hear ! hear . . ! 
and cries of bravo ! 

BEATRICE. Now that is out of my book . . the next one. 
[She takes up her work again.] You know, Edward . . 
without wishing to open up Painful Streets . . however 
scandalous it has been, your father left you a man's work 
to do. 

EDWARD. [His face cloudy.] An outlaw's ! 



122 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

BEATRICE. \lVhimsical, after a moment.'] I meant that. 
At all events you've not had to be your Father's right arm 
. . or the instrument of justice . . or a representative of 
the people . . or anything second hand of that sort, have 
you? 

EDWARD. {With sudden excitement. 1 Do you know 
what I discovered the other day about [he nods at the 
portrait^ . . him? 

BEATRICE. {Enquiring calmly.'] Innocence or guilt? 

EDWARD. He saved his firm once . . that was true. A 
most capable piece of heroism. Then, fifteen years after- 
wards . . he started again. 

BEATRICE. {Greatly interested.] Did he, now? 

EDWARD. One can't believe it was merely through weak- 
ness . . 

BEATRICE. {With artistic enthusiasm.] Of course not. 
He was a great financier . . a man of imagination. He 
had to find scope for his abilities, or die. He despised these 
fat little clients living so snugly on their unearned incomes 
. . and put them and their money to the best use he could. 

EDWARD. {Shaking his head solemnly.] That's all a fine 
phrase for robbery. 

BEATRICE turns her clever face to him and begins to 
follow up her subject keenly. 

BEATRICE. My dear Edward . . I understand you've 
been robbing your rich clients for the benefit of the poor 
ones? 

ALICE. {Who hasn't missed a word.] That's true. 

EDWARD. {Gently.] Well . . we're all a bit in debt to 
the poor, aren't we? 

BEATRICE. Quite SO. And you don't possess, and your 
father didn't possess that innate sense of the sacredness of 
property . . . {she enjoys that phrase] which alone can 
make a truly honest man. Nor did the man possess it who 
picked my pocket last Friday week . . nor does the tax- 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 123 

gatherer . . . nor do I. Your father's freedom from 
prejudice was tempered by a taste for Power and Display. 
Yours is by Charity. But that's all the difference I'll 
admit between you. Robbery ! . . it's a beautiful word. 

EDWARD. [A little pained by as much of this as he takes 
to he serious.'] I think he might have told me the truth. 

BEATRICE. Perhaps he didn't know it ! Would you have 
believed him? 

EDWARD. Perhaps not. But I loved him. 

BEATRICE looks again at the gentle, earnest face. 

BEATRICE. After as well as before? 

EDWARD. Yes. And not from mere force of habit, either. 

BEATRICE. [With reverence in her voice now.] That 
should silence a bench of judges. Well . . well . . 

Her sewing finished, she stuffs the things into her 
basket, gets up, in her abrupt, unconventional way, 
and goes without another word. Her brain is busy 
with the Voysey Inheritance, edward and alice 
are left in chairs by the fire, facing each other like 
an old domestic couple. 

EDWARD. Stay and speak to me. 

ALICE. I want to. Something more serious has hap- 
pened since dinner. 

EDWARD. I'm glad you can see that. 

ALICE. What is it? 

EDWARD. [With sudden exultation.] The smash has 
come . . and not by my fault. Old George Booth 

ALICE. Has he been here? 

EDWARD. Can you imagine it? That old man forced me 
into telling him the truth. I told him to take what money 
of his there was, and prosecute. He won't prosecute, but 
he bargains to take the money . . and further to bleed us, 
sovereign by sovereign, as I earn sovereign by sovereign 
with the sweat of my soul. I'll see him in his Christian 
Heaven first . . the Jew ! 



124) THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

ALICE. [Keeping her head.'] You can't reason with him ? 

EDWARD. He thinks he has the whip hand, and he means 
to use it. Also the Vicar has been told . . who has told his 
wife. She knows how not to keep a secret. The smash 
has come at last. 

ALICE. So you're glad? 

EDWARD. Thankful. My conscience is clear. I've done 
my best. [Then, as usual with him, his fervour collapses.'] 
And oh, Alice . . has it been worth doing? 

ALICE. [Encouragingly.] Half a dozen people pulled 
out of the fire. 

EDWARD. If only that isn't found out ! I've bungled this 
job, Alice. I feared all along I should. It was work for a 
strong man . . not for me. 

ALICE. Work for a patient man. 

EDWARD. You use kind words. But I've never shirked 
the truth about myself. My father said mine was a weak 
nature. He knew. 

ALICE. You have a religious nature. 

EDWARD. [Surprised.] Oh, no ! 

ALICE. [Proceeding to explain.] Therefore you're not 
fond of creeds and ceremonies. Therefore . . as the good 
things of this worldly world don't satisfy you, you shirk 
contact with it all you can. I understand this temptation 
to neglect and despise practical things. But if one yields 
to it one's character narrows and cheapens. That's a pity 
. . but it's so. 

EDWARD. [His eyes far away.] D'you ever feel that 
there aren't enough windows in a house? 

ALICE. [Prosaically.] In this weather . . too many. 

EDWARD. Well, then . . in a house — especially in a big 
city — in my office, at work, then . . one is out of hearing 
of all the music of the world. And when one does gti 
back to Nature, instead of being all curves to her round- 
ness, one is all corners. 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 125 

ALICE. [Smiling at him.'] Yes, you love to think idly 
. . just as Hugh does. You do it quite well, too. [Then 
briskly.'] Edward, may I scold you? 

EDWARD. For that? 

ALICE. Because of that. You're grown to be a sloven 
lately . . deliberately letting yourself be unhappy. 

EDWARD. Is happiness under one's control? 

ALICE. My friend, you shouldn't neglect your happiness 
any more than you neglect to wash your face. Here has 
the squalour of your work been making you poor. Because 
it was liable to be stopped at any moment, uncompleted . . 
why should that let your life be incomplete? Edward, for 
the last eighteen months you've been more like a moral 
portent than a man. You've not had a smile to throw to 
a friend . . or an opinion upon any subject. You've 
dropped your volunteering. [He protests.] I know there's 
something comic in volunteering . . though Heaven knows 
what it is ! I suppose you found it out of keeping with 
your unhappy fate. And how slack you were in your poli- 
tics last November. I don't believe you even voted . . 

EDVv^ARD. [Contrite at this.] That was wrong of me ! 

ALICE. Yes, I expect a man to be a good citizen. And 
you don't even eat properly. 

With that she completes the accusation, and edward 
searches round for a defence. 

EDWARD. Alice, it was always an effort with me to do 
all those things . . and lately every effort has had to go to 
my work. 

ALICE. You did them . . on principle. 

EDWARD. Don't laugh at me. 

ALICE. [Whispering the awful words.] Then truth- 
fully, Edward, once upon a time you were a bit of a prig. 

EDWARD. [With enough sense of humour to whisper 
back.] Was I ? 

ALICE. I'm afraid so. But the prig fell ill when your 



126 THE \ OYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

father died . . and had to be buried in his grave. [Then 
her voice rises stirringly. 1 Oh, don't you see what a bless- 
ing this cursed work was meant to be to you ? Why must 
you stand stiff against it? 

EDWARD. [Without a smile now.l But lately, Alice, I've 
hardly known myself. Once or twice I've lost my temper 
. . I've been brutal. 

ALICE. That's the best news in the world. There's your 
own wicked nature coming out. That's what we've been 
waiting for . . that's what we want. That's you. 

EDWARD. [Still serious.'] I'm sorry for it. 

ALICE. Oh, Edward, be a little proud of poor humanity 
. . take your own share in it gladly. It so discourages the 
rest of us if you don't. 

Suddenly he breaks down completely. 

EDWARD. I can't let myself be glad and live. There's 
the future to think of. And I'm so afraid of that. I must 
pretend I don't care . . even to myself . . even to you. 

ALICE. [Her mocking at an end.'] What is it you fear 
most about the future . . not just the obviously unpleasant 
things ? 

EDWARD. They'll put me in prison. 

ALICE. Perhaps. 

EDWARD. Who'll be the man who comes out? 

ALICE. Yourself. 

EDWARD. No, no ! I'm a coward. I can't stand alone, 
it's too lonely. I need affection . . I need friends. I cling 
to people that I don't care for deeply . . just for the com- 
fort of it. I've no home of my own. Every house that 
welcomes me now I like to think of as something of a 
home. And I know that this disgrace in store will leave 
me for a long time or a short time . . homeless. 

There he sits, shaken, alice waits a moment, not 
taking her eyes from him; then speaks. 

ALICE. There's something else I want to scold you for. 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 127 

You've still given up proposing to me. Certainly that 
shows a lack of courage . . and of perseverance. Or is it 
the loss of what I always considered a very laudable 
ambition? 

EDWARD is hardly able to trust his ears. Then he 
looks into her face, and his thankfulness frames it' 
self into a single sentence. 
EDWARD. Will you marry me? 
ALICE. Yes, Edward. 

For a minute he just holds his breath with happi- 
ness. But he shakes himself free of it, almost sav- 
agely. 
EDWARD. No ! no ! no ! We mustn't be stupid. I'm 
sorry I asked for that. 

ALICE. {With serene strength.'] I'm glad that you want 
me. While I live . . where I am will be Home. 

EDWARD. {Struggling with himself.'] No, it's too late. 
If you'd said Yes before I came into my inheritance . . 
perhaps I shouldn't have given myself to the work. So be 
glad that it's too late. I am. 

ALICE. {Happily.] There was never any chance of my 
marrying you when you were only a well-principled prig. 
I didn't want you . . and I don't believe you really wanted 
me. Now you do. And you must always take what you 
want. 

EDWARD. {Turning to her again.] My dear, what have 
we to start life upon . . to build our house upon? Poverty 
. . and prison for me. 

ALICE. {Mischievous.] Edward, you seem to think that 
all the money in the world was invested in your precious 
firm. I have four hundred a year of my own. At least 
let that tempt you. 

EDWARD catches her in his arms with a momentary 
Utile burst of passion. 
EDWARD, You're tempting me. 



128 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

She did not resist, but nevertheless he breaks away 
from her, disappointed with himself. She goes on, 
quietly, serenely. 
ALICE. Am I? Am I playing upon your senses in any 
way? Am I a silly child, looking to you for protection in 
return for your favour? Shall I hinder or help your life? 
If you don't think me your equal as woman to man, we'll 
never speak of this again. But if you do . . look at me, 
and make your choice. To refuse me my work and hap- 
piness in life and to cripple your own nature . . or to take 
my hand. 

She puts out her hand frankly, as a friend should. 
With only a second's thought he, happy, too, now, 
takes it as frankly. Then she sits beside him, and 
quite cheerfully changes the subject. 
ALICE. Now, referring to the subject of Mr. George 
Booth. What will he do? 

EDWARD. [Responsive though impatient.'] He'll do noth- 
ing. I shall be before him. 
ALICE. What about his proposal? 
EDWARD. That needs no answer. 

ALICE. Yes, it does. I know the temptation to hit back 
at him mock-heroically . . it's natural. Well, we'll con- 
sider it done. But he's a silly old man, and he doesn't 
know what he's talking about. I think we can bargain 
with him to keep the firm going somehow . . and if we 
can we must. 

At this EDWARD makes a last attempt to abandon 
himself to his troubles. 
EDWARD. No, Alice, no . . let it end here. It has done 
for me . . I'm broken. And of course we can't be mar- 
ried . . that's absurd. 

ALICE. [With firmness enough for two.] We shall be 
married. And nothing^s broken . . except our pride and 
righteousness . . and several other things we're better 



ACT v] THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE 129 

without. And now we must break our dignity in to bar- 
gaining. 

EDWARD. {^Struggling in the toils of virtue.'] But it'll 
be so useless. Colpus'll be round in a day or two to make 
his conditions . . he'll tell some intimate friend. They'll 
all come after their money like wasps after honey. And 
if they know I won't lift a finger in my own defence . . 
what sort of mercy will they have? 

ALICE. [Triumphantly completing her case.'] No, Ed- 
ward, if you surrender yourself entirely, you'll find them 
powerless against you. You see, you had something to 
hope or fear from Mr. Booth . . you hoped in your heart 
he'd end your trouble. But when you've conquered that 
last little atom of the selfishness which gets in one's way, I 
think you'll find you can do what you wish with these 
selfish men. [And she adds, fervently.] Oh, it's a power 
so seldom used. But the man who is able, and cares deeply, 
and yet has nothing to hope or fear is all powerful . . 
even in little things. 

EDWARD. Will nothing ever happen to set me free? 
Shall I never be able to rest for a moment . . turn round 
and say I've succeeded or I've failed? 

ALICE. That isn't what matters. 

EDWARD. If they could all meet, and agree, they might 
syndicate themselves, and keep me at it for life. 

ALICE. What more could you wish for? 

EDWARD. Than that dreary round! 

ALICE. My dear, the world must be put tidy. That's 
the work which splendid criminals . . and others leave 
about for us poor commonplace people to do. 

EDWARD. [With a little laugh.] And I don't believe in 
Heaven, either. 

ALICE. [Close to him.] But there's to be our life. 
What's wrong with that? 



130 THE VOYSEY INHERITANCE [act v 

EDWARD. My dear, when they put me in prison for 
swindling [He makes the word sound its zvorst.'] 

ALICE. I think they won't. But if they are so stupid . . 
I must be very careful. 

EDWARD. Of what? 

ALICE. To avoid false pride. I shall be foolishly proud 
of you. 

EDWARD. It's good to be praised sometimes . . by you. 

ALICE. My heart praises you. Good-night. 

EDWARD. Good-night. 

She kisses his forehead. But he puts up his face 
like a child, so she bends down, and for the first time 
their lips meet. Then she steps back from him, add- 
ing happily, with perhaps just a touch of shyness, 

ALICE. Till to-morrow. 

EDWARD. [Echoing in gratitude the hope and promise 
in her voice.'] Till to-morrow. 

She leaves him to sit there by the table for a few 
moments longer, looking into his future, streaked as 
it is to be with trouble and joy. As whose is not? 
From above . . from above the mantelpiece, that is 
to say . . the face of the late mr. voysey seems to 
look down upon his son not unkindly, though with 
that curious buccaneering twist of the eyebrows 
which distinguished his countenance in life. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 



131 



"The Voysey Inheritance" was first played at the Court 
Theatre, a Vedrenne-Barker performance, on the after- 
noon of November /th, 1905. 



Mr. Voysey 

Mrs. Voysey 

Trenchard Voysey, K.C. 

Honor Voysey 

Major Booth Voysey 

Mrs. Booth Voysey 

Christopher 

Edward Voysey 

Hugh Voysey 

Mrs. Hugh Voysey 

Ethel Voysey 

Denis Tregoning 

Alice Maitland 

Mr. Booth 

The Rev. Evan Colpus 

Peacey 

Phcebe 

Mary 



A. E. George 

Miss Florence Haydon 

Eugene Mayeur 

Miss Geraldine Olliffe 

Charles Fulton 

Miss Grace Edwin 

Harry C. Duff 

Thalberg Corbett 

Dennis Eadie 

Miss Henrietta Watson 

Miss Alexandra Carlisle 

Frederick Lloyd 

Miss Mabel Hackney 

O. B. Clarence 

Edmund Gwenn 

Trevor Lowe 

Miss Gwynneth Gallon 

Mrs. Fordyce 



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